


I Remember Meeting You In A Dream

by sandwastesinthevoidofmychest



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Background Sally/Anthea, Don't copy to another site, Dreaming of Soulmate, Dreams, First Kiss, Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mycroft has a cat, Mycroft owns a café, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Past Domestic Violence, Pining, Self Confidence Issues, Touch-Starved, past abusive relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:02:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 43,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22685179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandwastesinthevoidofmychest/pseuds/sandwastesinthevoidofmychest
Summary: Greg Lestrade has begun to have recurring dreams about a ginger-haired café owner. He feels that there is something calling him to this man. He is not alone in this, with academic studies being launched on the connection between soulmates with dreams. With cases recorded from around the world, is this mysterious man man closer to Greg than he thinks?
Relationships: Anthea/Sally Donovan, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Lestrade
Comments: 85
Kudos: 212
Collections: Mystrade Soulmates Week 2020





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I've been writing Mystrade for years, but this is the first collection I've ever joined, so thank you to the Mystrade community for all of this. 
> 
> Idea stolen from a week of recurring dreams that I myself had, because why not project your hopes & dreams on these two. 
> 
> Please enjoy <3

It’s the blue-grey eyes. Stormy and knowing, the potential depths of them haunt Greg as he wakes. 

It’s the fifth day in a row that he’s woken from this exact dream. 

A black-fronted café on a busy street that he can never remember the name of. The owner, a gorgeous ginger-haired, freckled wonder of a man, with the most amazing eyes. 

Greg wakes sweating and breathless and curses his alarm clock. They were just about to talk, something that the dreams hadn’t progressed to yet. 

Greg’s alarm woke him just as his mystery man had opened his mouth. 

Something in his chest hurts at the thought, a sense of loss. 

Of this chance of being able to identity the man was ripped away from him. 

But really, what was he thinking? A dream could hardly reveal someone he needs to meet, could it?

He’s ashamed to say that his google search history has been plagued with dream interpretation questions, message boards of people with the same experiences. 

There were theories about soulmates, a psychology department in a university in America has started a study on it. 

There were a few happy endings on the message boards, people who did manage to meet the person of their dreams (literally), and according to their comments, most of them were wildly in love. 

The problem, Greg thinks to himself is that he has no idea where this café is. 

He can describe the interior; black and white tiles on the floor, fancy black counters, a huge coffee machine. There’s no seating upstairs, but downstairs is lit with a gentle mood lightning. 

Tables are hardwood, crafted artistically, grooves and edges. Candles sit on each table. 

It’s romantic. 

But that’s not what Greg cares about. He wants to be able to remember the name of the café, so he can go and search for it. 

He knows if he had to, he would go as far as he needed to, if it wasn’t in London. 

There’s no doubt about it; bag packed and ticket bought. 

But the problem is that he _doesn’t_ know. 

Is this man dreaming about him? Is he looking for him? 

From experiences that he’s read, both people have the dreams. 

Settings differ depending on their ‘soulmate’s’ work or living situations. 

So that goes to question, is this mystery man’s dream of Greg in Scotland Yard or in the cafe? 

A little voice niggles in Greg’s head that his picture has been in the paper enough times, he’s had to speak at televised press conferences, if the man read newspapers or watched the news, might he have spotted him? 

The man would have his name, occupation; all he’d have to do would be turn up at Scotland Yard. 

Greg admits to himself that that would probably come across as unsettling, and the loneliness in his chest aches at the thought that maybe the man _has_ seen him, but is not bothered with finding him. 

Somehow that thought hurts more. 

Greg goes to work and does his job as best he can, but ever since the dreams have started he’s been getting progressively more distracted. 

Each night that goes by, every dream where he wakes before speaking with the man is driving him crazy. 

Then one night, two weeks into the recurring dreams, the man speaks. 

Greg gets such a shock at the soft, -dare he say it- posh voice that he startles awake. 

Covering his eyes with his hands he curses himself, suddenly loud in his silent room. 

Tears sting his eyes, the only words he had managed to catch were “Hello, Gregory.” Voice soft, amused smile on the gorgeous man’s face. 

There was a moment of euphoria- _He knows me!_ \- before he woke. 

Tears sting his eyes, the loneliness that has been plaguing him lately is growing with each dream. He had been managing well enough, he thought. 

Now he wakes longing to feel another’s warmth beside him, the touch of warm skin on skin. 

In theory he could go on dates, get into a relationship, have sex. But when they’re not this mystery man, Greg fears that he would just be using the other person carelessly. 

He could also have one-night stands, all he’d need to do is download a specific app for that requirement, pick a man and take him home.

The problem, Greg thinks to himself, is that he’s a romantic. 

A hopeless romantic at that. Feeling more hopeless by the day. 

One important insight he had gotten from his latest dream was that the man was English. He had had a posh upper-class English accent. 

Greg tried to cling onto that one little bit of hope as much as he could. 

Perhaps they were closer to each other than he dared to think.

* * *

Closing Greg’s office door behind her, Sally comes to sit across from Greg. 

“Alright, what’s wrong?” 

Greg looks up from the folder he was attempting to read. “What do you mean?”

“I’m worried about you.” 

Greg’s eyes widen in surprise, “Why would you be worried about _me_?” 

Sally frowns at him, “Because you’re my friend, Greg. Not just my boss. The last few weeks...you haven’t really -I don’t know- been all here.” 

Greg stares at her blankly, his heart picking up speed. If he told Sally about the dreams, She’d surely worry then. 

Greg hesitates, “I...haven’t been sleeping well.” It’s not a lie. 

Sally watches him carefully, “Any idea why?” 

Greg shrugs, feigning nonchalance.

Sally stares at him, clearly searching for a hint of a lie. Her eyes focussed on his face. “I think we all need a good night out. Destress, just enjoy ourselves.” 

“Don’t think I have the energy to be honest.” Greg mumbles. 

Sally glances at her watch and stands, “Well make the energy. Friday night. Maybe you might even find someone to take home with you, probably just need a good shag.” 

“Sally!” 

Sally shrugs her shoulders, unbothered. “It’s been over a year since you went on a date, Greg. Time to get back in the game.” 

Greg sighs; yes he’s lonely, yes he longs to feel another person’s warmth...but not like this. 

“Sal, I’m fifty-two, there is no place for me in ‘the game’ anymore.” He uses his fingers to put speech marks around the words. 

Sally takes him completely off-guard by laughing quietly, “Oh Greg, you really don’t know, do you?” 

Greg stares at her in confusion, “Know what?” 

“You’re the silver fox of NSY, Greg. You have admirers on every floor of this building, you are most definitely not too old for any of this. Some people here would practically jump you if given the chance.” Her face is alight with amusement. “You’re not going to tell me you’ve never noticed the appreciative glances you get any night we’re out?” 

Greg feels the heat of the blush that’s probably turned his face a deep shade of red. He shakes his head almost self-consciously. 

Sally sighs, mock-exasperated, “Greg, you’re gorgeous. Trust me. I’ve had to hear it from everyone here who thinks so.” 

Greg can’t help but snort at that. Imagining Sally having to deal with his apparent admirers. 

He used to be confident, when he was younger, before his marriage. 

The divorce has been finalised for five years at this point - five years of precious freedom - but he’s found it hard to regain his confidence. 

He’s never discussed it with anyone, and obviously it must not be noticeable; he’s recently been promoted to DCI, his work relationships are good, and he has a few friends, even plays on the division’s soccer team weekly. 

However, being cheated on repetitively by Anna was nothing short of heartbreaking. 

The pain was amplified when she had told him that he simply was not good enough, handsome enough, _there_ enough for her. 

Therefore, Greg had had the distinct certainty in his head that he just would never be _enough_ for someone. 

Yes, he’d been on dates, had one or two short-lived romances with both men and women, but in the end it always came down to the terrifying idea of giving away another fifteen years of his life to someone and instead ending up alone and broken instead. Again. 

Sally watches him, a hint of concern in her eyes, “Right, Friday night, alright?”

Greg nods, although reluctant to the idea. 

“Fantastic. It’ll be good, trust me.” She goes to the door of his office, turning back before leaving, “Go get some coffee, boss. You look like you need it.”

* * *

Friday comes around too quickly in Greg’s opinion. The idea of a night out makes him feel ill.

All week the dreams have followed him. He wakes up more exhausted each day. 

Surely this couldn’t happen long-term? 

He’d hardly make it through another week, he’s already having at least five coffees on a good day, he’s taken up smoking again too. The mixture of stress and exhaustion eating into his bones. 

By midday, there’s been a frantic call in of a brutal murder in an air B&B located on Notting Hill. 

Greg has to sit through a meeting with the Deputy Commissioner before he can travel to the scene himself. 

As he’s driving, he calls Sally who relays all the essential details to him. 

From what they can tell, it was a Valentines week holiday gone horrifically wrong. 

Pretty much an open and closed case.

The woman was dead and the man had shot himself, currently in critical condition in hospital. 

By now, his department was used to the spike in domestic arguments around the day itself, the odd murder too. This would be no different. 

Greg meets the property owner before anyone else, she’s understandably shaken and has a takeaway coffee cup in her shaking hands. 

Greg briefly glances as the black cup, a small and lowercase _holmes & co._ is printed in white lettering to contrast against the black, he feels goosebumps rise on his arms and a shiver makes its way down his spine, before he can process the thoughts along with the sudden increase in his heart rate, the woman interrupts him. 

“They wanted it to be like the movie.” She’s in her sixties, Greg guesses, still feeling like he’s on the verge of a panic attack. “She was so excited, it was lovely. They seemed lovely.” 

“I’m so sorry to hear that.” Greg frowns watching her hands shake around the cup, “Is there anyone you can stay with?” 

She wipes away a tear, “My daughter in Cornwall. She’s coming to collect me, but you people are still asking questions.” 

Greg shakes his head, “I’m just going to check that we’re tying everything up, alright? Then we can let you go.” 

She nods, “Thank you.” 

Greg passes by a reporter with a _holmes & co. _cup, ignoring her once she recognises him. A statement can be released later, when they gather all the facts. 

Then, on the bonnet of one of the responding officer’s cars, another black takeaway cup sits there alone. 

Greg feels his breath coming quicker, he feels like he’s missing something monumentally important. He feels like he’s about to suffocate. 

He nods at some SOCO officers as they exit the house, painted a deep blue like the door from the movie. He vaguely remembers watching it a few months ago when there was nothing else on. Halfway up the stairs Greg meets Sally. 

Sally is also holding a _holmes & co. _takeaway cup. 

It’s when it clicks, that last essential piece in his exhausted brain. 

Sally reaches forward to grasp at his arm, pulling him up to her step as his knees threaten to give out.  
“Greg! Shit!” She drops the cup and it rolls down the stairs. She pushes him into the wall in an effort to keep him standing, “What’s wrong? You’re as white as a ghost. Do you need a medic?”

Greg holds on weakly to her forearms, his heart is racing in his chest. 

_The café_ , he wants to say, _where is it? Please?_

Instead the words are stuck in his throat. 

Greg shakes his head, trying to fight against the dizziness that showers over him. 

Sally calls to one of their sergeants to get someone to help. 

“Sit down, c’mon.” She murmurs, panic still tainting her voice as she helps him sit on a step. “Greg?” 

Greg shakes his head, unable to speak. 

A woman in a paramedic’s uniform appears in front of them, asking Sally to give them space. 

“Your heart rate is through the roof.” She murmurs, glancing worriedly at him as she goes for her blood pressure monitor. 

“Is he alright?” Sally’s voice shaking, “He said he hasn’t been sleeping properly lately.” She adds in an effort to help. 

“Are you his next-of-kin?” 

Greg and Sally meet each other’s gazes and before she can say anything, Greg nods his head. 

She might as well be; she’s the closest he has to family, and she’s his best friend. 

The paramedic seems appeased by that and continues her examination. 

“Exhaustion and dehydration may be a large factor.” She says after a few minutes, listening carefully to Greg’s heart slow to a reasonable pace. 

She looks to Sally, “Keep an eye on him. Make sure he eats and drinks,” then she looks to him, a stern expression on her face, “If you still can’t sleep, go to your GP and they’ll be able to prescribe a sleeping pill. Your body needs rest to keep it functioning, alright?” 

“Thank you.” Greg manages, his voice sounding normal enough to appease worries. 

“There’s a café down the road, they’ve been giving us free drinks while we’ve been here. Do you want me to go get you a water?” 

“No!” Greg’s sudden outburst takes Sally by surprise, “I’ll go-uh-get some…air.” 

Sally stares at him blankly, “Shall I come with?”

Greg shakes his head, “Where about is it?” 

“Walk out into the street, turn left and you’ll see it about a hundred metres away. Hard to miss.” She watches him carefully, “You sure you’re alright, boss?” 

Greg manages to get to his feet, his heart picking up pace once again. 

_Could it be? Will he be there?_

“Should be.” He manages. Making his way down the stairs. 

Sally stays by his side, hesitant to leave him. When they walk outside, she points down the road. 

“That building there with the black front, can’t miss the smell of coffee.” She glances over at him, her hand curling around his wrist. Greg knows she’s doing it to steady him, but also to check his pulse. 

“You’re going all pale again, are you okay?” Sally frowns at him, unconvinced when he nods. 

“If you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m coming to find you, alright?” 

“Alright.” Greg says in acceptance, it’s either that or she’ll come with him and this is something he needs to do alone. 

He passes by his coworkers, not noticing any of them, not even the few concerned looks thrown his way. 

He leaves the cordoned off area, makes his way past the few bystanders who are there for a gawp and he finds his breath coming faster as he walks closer towards the building in sight. 

The aroma of freshly roasted coffee reaches him and he feels and odd sense of… _comfort._

Greg comes to a stop on the path across from the building, the now familiar black exterior takes away his breath. 

The small _holmes & co. _sign white in contrast, gives off an impression of minimalism. 

People leave the cafe with coffees and teas, but Greg can only stare. 

He’s stood here so many times in his dreams, he’s found it. 

He forces himself to take a deep breath, stands up straight and begins by taking his first steps towards the café. 

_What if he doesn’t recognise me?_


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your kind comments, I've been blown away by them! I hope I do them justice. <3

The bell above the door rings when he walks in, startling him. His body on high alert already. 

He tries to take comfort in the familiar smell of coffee. 

He doesn’t realise that he’s holding his breath, eyes cataloguing the space. 

The black and white tiles on the floor shine, the walls covered in what looks like a showcase of the art of local people, little cards with names and prices beside each. 

The counter is black, the coffee machine huge and almost intimidating. 

To the left there’s a door that says ‘Private’ and to the side of that, steps downstairs where he can hear cutlery being moved, the slight hum of conversation. 

A woman appears from behind the machine.

Brown hair tied up in a messy bun, she’s wearing a white shirt with a black waistcoat. Her eyes meet his, her face quickly turning to concern. 

“Sir, you look quite pale, are you alright?” 

Greg thinks he’s feeling his heart break into tiny, jagged pieces. 

He opens his mouth to speak, but he can’t even muster a whisper. 

_He’s not here. It was only a dream._

But how can he dream of this exact place, every detail of it and not be right about the man? 

The woman comes around from the counter, she brings him a glass of cold water and he takes it with shaking hands. 

“Please, drink.” She says quietly, her voice gentle. 

Greg does as she says, the water grounding him. He feels like an idiot. 

“Sorry.” 

She smiles reassuringly at him, “Perfectly fine. You’re with the police for the murder across the street.” It’s not a question. 

Greg can only nod, taking another sip of water. His eyes sting with tears and the woman averts her gaze, kindly giving him time to compose himself. 

She walks back to the counter, disappearing behind the machine again. 

Greg stands to the side as two people enter, laughing amongst themselves. 

Greg’s chest aches when the bell rings. 

Greg stands to the side, pretending to examine the art on the walls. His grip is tight on the glass, and he digs is teeth into his bottom lip, worrying at the dry skin. 

He wants to leave, he wants to go to sleep for a week dreamlessly, he wants to cry. But he _can’t_. Not here. 

Not while his whole team are just across the road. Not in front of Sally when she inevitably comes to fetch him. 

He downs the rest of the water, closing his eyes for a few seconds, trying desperately to ignore what feels like a gaping hole in his chest.

He feels like his body has gone into mourning for the man. 

_He’s probably not even real. The soulmate thing’s probably a hoax._

The barista converses with the customers while she makes their drinks, Greg hears her voice, but the words go over his head. 

As the people make their way out of the cafe, Greg sees the door marked ‘private’ open out of the corner of his eye. 

“Anthea? I require your assistance for a moment.”

Greg’s head turns so fast at the familiar voice that he nearly pulls a muscle in his neck. 

“Of course.” Anthea replies, moving towards the man. 

Greg’s eyes are wide as he stares at the man from his dreams, _real_ and in the flesh. 

Anthea and the man are oblivious of his presence until the sound of Greg’s glass shattering on the tiles brings both of them back into the room.

Greg flinches in shock, staring down at the shards of glass around his feet. He doesn’t remember letting go of the glass. 

“Fuck-sorry for this-“ His voice shakes. 

The woman called Anthea brushes him off, going to fetch a broom. 

Greg’s eyes meet the man’s. 

He forgets to breathe. 

His eyes are a deeper blue right now, even from across the café. 

There’s a ferocity to them that makes Greg shrink a little in his place. The notion of being able to see a storm in them comes back to Greg; a thought he often had after some of the dreams. 

The man is staring at him with wide eyes, he blinks once or twice, as if he refuses to believe what he’s looking at. 

Greg feels a wave of hope so intense that it crashes over him. He sucks in a breath, feeling as through he’s drowning and gasping for air. 

_He recognises me. He knows me._

It hits Greg that it seems as though the other man is cataloguing him, the man’s eyes still wide with shock and what could be disbelief, trailing across his face. 

Greg can’t find the right words, can’t even find his voice. His mouth opens, but closes with remorse. 

Greg stares at the man as a whole now, comparing him to the dream version. 

A few inches taller, Greg would need to stand on his tiptoes to reach his lips perfectly…

Greg feels the heat of a blush spread across his cheeks, when his eyes trail over the bare forearms revealed thanks to the rolled shirtsleeves, Greg feels the familiar ache of wanting. 

He wears a waistcoat like Anthea, his a grey tweed, a navy silk back to it. Greg’s fingers ache to touch. 

The man is wearing a black apron, it’s dotted with what must be flour. When Greg’s eyes meet his once again, Greg knows his own face must betray everything because the man is frowning at him. 

His gaze is sharp, but Greg takes a step towards him regardless, glass crunching beneath his feet. 

When the man registers Greg’s movement, his expression hardens and when Anthea appears with a sweeping brush, he disappears behind the door marked ‘private’. 

Greg moves unsteadily towards the door, but Anthea stands tall in front of it, her face a mixture of emotions that Greg doesn’t have time or energy to process. 

“Sir, you can’t go in there.” Anthea sounds almost apologetic. 

Greg stares down at his feet, trying to clear his head. 

He aches, oh how he _aches_. 

If he thought his heart was breaking earlier, it has nothing on how it feels now. 

_He doesn’t want me._

Anthea smiles sympathetically at him and goes to sweep up the broken glass. 

Greg stands there almost convinced that he’s being torn apart piece by piece. 

_Not enough for him,_ his ex-wife’s voice echoes in his head. 

He’s about to leave, forcing his legs to move despite how heavy he feels, but the bell above the door rings and Sally walks in. 

“Fuck, Greg, you look worse than earlier.” 

Looking towards Anthea, Sally actually blushes. Greg has to do a double take.

Greg watches Anthea share the most genuine smile with Sally. “Hello again.”

“Hey there.” She glances at the pile of glass that Anthea’s sweeping up and frowns, then looks up at Greg. “I’m taking you home. You’re ill.” 

Greg nods in defeat. He doesn’t have the energy to argue. There’s no point, there’s nothing here for him after all. 

The thought sends another ache through his body. 

_He doesn’t want me._

Sally hands Anthea a piece of paper, Greg can see her number scrawled across it in Sally’s handwriting. “I don’t want to lose you.” She whispers, yet Greg hears her and stares at her in confusion. 

Anthea smiles softly, folding the piece of paper and putting it in her pocket. In return she gives Sally a card with her name and number on it. “Likewise.” 

Then, as if nothing has just happened, Sally turns to focus on him and beckons him to come with her. 

Anthea and Sally share another intimate glance before she follows him out to Portobello Road. 

“Greg, I’m worried about you.” Sally walks him back to the crime scene, where his team is cleaning up. “Give me your car keys, I’ll sort everything here.” 

Greg hands his keys over, he feels so heavy that maybe, just maybe he’ll be able to finally sleep. 

_If he doesn’t want to know me, will the dreams stop?_

He hopes so.

* * *

Sally walks him to the door of his apartment, “Never going to be able to watch Notting Hill again.” She says breezily, trying to lighten the mood. 

Walking inside the cold apartment, Sally watches him concerned. “It’s the weekend, try and sleep, alright?”

“I’ll try.” Greg murmurs. 

Sally squeezes his arm, as affectionate as she gets. “I’ll ring you tomorrow. If you need anything, I’m just a phone call away.” 

Greg nods, forcing a smile that feels fake as hell. 

He watches her disappear into the elevator before closing his door. 

He stares at his sitting room blankly, the pain that he had felt ripping through him has made way for a deafening silence, an emptiness that he feels he’ll never shake. 

_I didn’t even learn his name._

What does it matter now?

He shakes his head, going to the kitchen to get a glass of water. Then, slowly he tries to muster enough energy to get out of his clothes. He leaves his boxers on, and gets into the bed. 

The cotton sheets are cool against his bare skin and he finds himself with tears in his eyes. 

He wants to feel warm skin on his own. He wants to be touched by someone who cares about him. It’s been so long that he doesn’t know if he’d be able to handle it.

Yet he craves touch. 

_Would he have touched me like he loved me?_

Greg rolls onto his side, clenching his teeth, shutting his eyes against the tears that sting. 

_Not good enough._

The voice echoes in his head, and as he drops into a sleep, he believes it wholeheartedly. 

Greg wakes to go to the bathroom, it’s dark inside and out and he doesn’t bother looking at his watch. He still feels like he’s being pulled down into the depths of himself, an anchor tied around his legs. 

He imagines that a small breeze would whistle through the hollow of his chest if he went outside. 

_Let everyone know_ , he thinks, _that no one wants me._

He’s too drowsy as he returns to bed to realise that he has had a dreamless sleep.

The next time Greg wakes, he’s groggy and an orange light is creeping under his blinds. He doesn’t know if it signals sunrise or sunset. 

He gets out of bed, searching for his phone. He finds it in the pocket of his trousers that he’d discarded on the floor yesterday. 

He learns it’s 5PM and is surprised that he’s slept for nearly 24 hours. 

His mind feels clearer and he realises something, it hits him in the chest like a punch. 

_I didn’t dream of him._

In fact, he didn’t dream at all. He finds an odd sense of peace, but it’s tinged with bitterness. 

He texts Sally to let her know he slept fine and that he’ll see her Monday. 

Then he goes to shower, letting the hot water run over his skin; a little on the painful side. 

He tries to pretend that someone warm is touching him, but it doesn’t work. 

It never does. 

Greg knows he shouldn’t, but his mind is racing as he searches for the soulmates forum that he’d visited multiple times over the last few weeks. 

His hands shake as he scrolls through new topics: _marriage, history, approaching soulmate_

Biting his lip, he opens a new topic, something that he has never done. Up until now, he hadn’t even commented on any posts. 

> **GLANON: Rejection:**
> 
> _What happens if your soulmate rejects you? Do the dreams stop for good?_

Greg had created a separate email account to join the site, and immediately he starts to receive messages asking for clarification and details. 

> **HHAdmin:** _Please expand on your post. Context needed in order to form more informative replies._
> 
> **GLANON:** _I have been having dreams of a man for a few weeks. I was dreaming about him in his workplace. Yesterday, I found him._
> 
> _He looked at me in confusion and recognition, before glaring and leaving the room._
> 
> _I’ve since slept dreamlessly after this confrontation. I don’t know what to do._

Greg stares at the too-bright screen, heart thumping in his chest. 

When no replies come immediately, he leaves his laptop on the sofa and walks around his living room, a nervous energy running through him. 

What if the dreams stop? Would he be happy? 

Greg bites his lower lip again, flinching when he tastes blood. 

He presses his index finger against his lip, it comes away a deep scarlet clot, the metallic taste in his mouth makes him close his eyes, sit down and stay still. 

He’s shaking again. He can’t help it. 

If the dreams do stop, he’ll finally be rested to an extent.

If they do, does it mean he’s lost his chance at happiness, at love? 

_Not enough._

Greg aches. 

Another inescapable layer of loneliness shrouds him. 

What was he expecting? He’s 52, a workaholic, and not…. _enough_ for someone to stay faithful to him. 

This man was hardly going to swoop in and sweep Greg off his feet, lead them both to a happily ever after. 

Greg’s seen too many murders, too many cases where a lover has been spurned, too much hurt for him to really believe in love in the first place. 

Perhaps an end to the dreams is the least painful option to it all. 

Greg makes himself a quick dinner, going back to his laptop once he’s cleaned up. Refreshing the page, he’s surprised to see the influx of comments. 

> **HHAdmin** : _In most cases that have been reported on this forum, first meetings tend to go smoothly. However, there can be many factors that influence such a thing._
> 
> _The dreams occur less frequently and sometimes completely stop once the individual and their soulmate enter a relationship._
> 
> **SMAdmin** : _Would you think about contacting them again? Perhaps they were in shock, or maybe they are already in a relationship with a non-soulmate? I agree with HHAdmin that there are many factors that can contribute to a situation such as this. I would not give up, I hope things improve._
> 
> **UOA** : _If we think about this rationally, ‘soulmates’ and these dreams are not a common experience. Only now studies are being launched, therefore we only have limited information. Very few people in my own life have had the dreams. Only one of those has located their soulmate, they are now happy._
> 
> **IIAnon** : _It’s unrealistic that this should be all sunshine and roses. My own ‘soulmate’ cheated on me. My experience with the dreams were this: once we entered a relationship, they ended. When I was losing him, the dreams returned as nightmares. All dreams/nightmares stopped once he died of a heart attack. Some here say that this was a punishment for him breaking our bond. I don’t know what to believe anymore. If I were you, I’d be thankful the dreams have stopped; go back to living your own life._

Greg scrolls through other comments, but he still feels unsettled. 

Against his better judgement, he googles _holmes & co._

Their official page comes up immediately and Greg’s heart takes off again, his eyes skim their ‘about’ page, eyes settling on the name: **Mycroft Holmes**.

“Mycroft.” Greg whispers into the empty apartment, stomach lurching. “Mycroft Holmes.” 

It sounds like a prayer.

* * *

Saturday night goes by dreamlessly, Sunday is uneventful. 

When Greg takes himself to bed that night, he feels rested. 

He’s confident that he’ll be able to go to work in the morning and actually focus. 

His thoughts stray back to the man, Mycroft, now that Greg knows his name there seems to be an added melancholy that wasn’t there previously. 

Closing his eyes, he tries to push away the loneliness that he feels himself drowning in. 

Maybe he should just be grateful that the dreams have stopped, forget about it all. 

He’s put a stop to any thoughts of returning to the café. What good would it do after all? 

_He doesn’t want me._

It’s a new mantra. Now his mind not only torments him about not being good enough, he’s also undesirable. 

He curls up in bed, cursing it all. 

Greg wakes gasping for air five minutes before his alarm rings. 

He struggles to breathe, slowly getting his senses back. 

He’d dreamt of Mycroft again. 

Greg had felt the man near him, not near enough to touch, but Greg had reached for him anyway. 

Mycroft’s eyes were dark like the day they met, but he apologised. 

The way he said ‘Gregory’ sends shivers through his spine. 

Even now, just thinking about it, Greg feels the flush of heat in his cheeks. 

He can’t tell if he’s aroused or ashamed, maybe a mixture of the two. 

But nestled amongst the emptiness that has been weighing him down is a spark of hope. 

Greg makes a beeline for the break room when he arrives at work, the smell of coffee is too good to ignore. 

No one else is in here this early, so he has a few minutes of silence to make his coffee. There’s a pile of daily newspapers on one of the tables and before he leaves the one on the top catches his attention. 

_Soulmates: New evidence reveals a deeper history._

Greg picks the paper up to bring it to his office. He’s been aware of small articles in papers but the subject has never made headlines. 

In his office he takes a sip of his coffee, hands shaking a little as he unfolds the paper. He feels a guilt that he can’t explain to himself. 

> _The much publicised study on the theory of soulmates being carried out by the University Of Arizona has recently obtained new evidence of historic occurrences of the dream-based phenomenon. A PhD student from Cambridge University who has been studying various diaries from the 19th century has come across numerous mentions of significant dreams that have later led to a partnership. Discussions are now ongoing between the two universities on whether to make the study collaborative, with Cambridge focussing on historical occurrences._
> 
> _Up until now, the subject has been thought to have been a phenomenon exclusively occurring in the 21st century. The study currently estimates that soulmate dreams only occur in 10% of the world’s population._
> 
> _This discovery adds depth to the study that was previously unthought of._
> 
> _The University of Arizona are now appealing for history and anthropology researchers to approach them if they have come across evidence in their own studies._
> 
> _A BBC documentary is currently in the process and is slated for release at the end of the year._

Greg stares at the paper, feeling that little spark of hope ignite in his chest again. 

Finishing his coffee, he gets to work on the pile of paperwork that’s gathered on his desk over the weekend. 

He can’t believe the difference in the energy he has regained from two dreamless nights. He bites his lip as he remembers the apology in last night’s dream.

He wonders idly whether they can control what happens in the dreams. 

It would explain the apology. But then again, could the apology have occurred just because Greg would have wanted it to? 

He’s staring into space, deep in thought about how he could possibly talk to Mycroft through a dream when Sally comes into his office. 

“Jesus Greg, you look so much better.” She’s carrying a newspaper under her arm and Greg realises almost immediately that it’s the same as the one on his desk. 

“Well hello to you too, detective inspector.” Greg says easily. 

When he got promoted to DCI, Sally was promoted to DI. They were a good team beforehand, but now they were better. 

Being higher up the pecking order had sped up the administrative tasks that had taken an absurd amount of time, now they were closing more cases than ever before. 

Sally sits, then notices the newspaper in front of Greg. 

Greg notices a slight blush on her face and she hesitates before speaking. 

“I wanted to talk to you.” She says quietly, seriously. “As a friend, not a colleague.” 

Greg feels the colour drain from his face, “You’re not ill, are you?” 

Sally laughs, shaking her head. “No, don’t worry.” 

“Have you read this?” Sally asks, pointing at the headline that had caught Greg’s attention earlier. 

Greg nods, hesitant. 

“And what do you think?” She puts her own copy on his desk. “Of the whole soulmate thing?” 

Sally knows he can’t lie to her, she knows all his tells too easily. 

Greg shrugs, “It’s...interesting.” 

She nods, “So you believe?” 

Greg thinks of Mycroft, thinks of the aching emptiness, the loneliness that fills him. “I guess so.” He mumbles. 

Some of the tension falls from Sally’s shoulders. “I’ve met mine.” She confesses. 

Greg manages to force a smile, “That’s great, Sal.” 

“I’ve been having the dreams for a while. Thought nothing of them until I heard someone talk about the whole soulmate theory.” She glances down at her hands, “Remember the café on Friday?” 

Greg’s heart starts racing again, remembering. “Anthea?” He whispers. It would make sense of the exchange he witnessed. 

An easy smile comes to Sally’s face. “Yes!” She doesn’t seem surprised that he knows. 

“I’m happy for you.” Greg says sincerely. 

Sally looks at him, really _looks_. “I haven’t met anyone else who’s had the dreams. Except you.” 

“ _Me_?” Greg whispers. He doesn’t manage to hide his shock. It would be useless to deny it.

She nods solemnly. “When I realised, it made sense. Although my dreams weren’t having the same toll on me as yours are for you.”

Greg sits in silence, the exhaustion that he’s felt the last few weeks is a not too distant memory. 

“Anthea has invited both of us for lunch at the café tomorrow.” 

Greg shakes his head, “I don’t think-“

“Mycroft will be there.” Sally gives him a pointed look, full of expectation. 

Greg hesitates under her intense gaze. “I-“ He pauses. He can always cancel he tries to tell himself, though Sally would have a hard time believing it. “-Okay. I’ll go.” 

The anxiety that rushes through him at the mere thought of seeing Mycroft again is enough to take his breath away. 


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You don’t have to be alone.” Anthea murmurs.  
> “Perhaps I prefer being alone.” Mycroft retorts stubbornly.  
> “That’s bullshit and you know it.” 
> 
> Mycroft's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's time we get a glimpse at Mycroft's life & a hint at what is lurking in his past.
> 
> As the story continues to develop, it's starting to look like it will be written in both Greg and Mycroft's POVs, whereas it was originally just meant to be in Greg's. 
> 
> Sorry for the wait, and thank you so much for the comments and kudos, I've been blown away.  
> Please enjoy & keep safe <3

“Greg’s a good man.” Anthea’s voice brings Mycroft back to his sitting room. 

He blinks, confused. He’s just been roused from staring into space for god only knows how long. Anthea sits on the arm of his sofa, watching him with kind eyes. “I said Greg’s a good man.” She says quietly, watching him closely. 

Back in the present, he sighs. “You’ve know Sally for four days, you don’t know Greg.” 

Anthea shakes her head, “She talks about him a lot. He’s her best friend, they’ve worked together for years. It’s clear to see.” 

“So?” Mycroft asks, irritation in his voice. 

“He’s your soulmate, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft frowns, “What does that matter?” 

“You’re being a deliberately obtuse bastard right now.” 

Mycroft can’t help but glare at her. 

Anthea’s returning stare is harsh and direct. “You can’t live your life denying yourself any chance of happiness that presents itself to you, Mycroft.” She says evenly, “Stop being a martyr, stop punishing yourself for things that were not your fault. You don’t have to be alone.” 

“Perhaps I prefer being alone.” Mycroft retorts stubbornly. 

“That’s bullshit and you know it.” There’s an edge to Anthea’s voice, the dangerous ‘don’t argue back’ edge that Mycroft is more than familiar with. 

He’s had years of experience with it; Anthea had worked with him when he was practically the British government. After his near-death experience and his move to occasional political consultancy, and café ownership, she had stayed. 

Wisely, with over fifteen years experience, he chooses to stay silent. 

“I’ve invited Sally and Greg to the café for lunch tomorrow.” 

Mycroft watches her in disbelief, “I can understand you inviting Sally, but Greg?” 

Anthea shrugs, “You two need to speak to each other.”

Dread seeps into Mycroft, “No.”

Anthea’s gaze hardens. “You are not your past. He is also not his past. Did you know he’s been through a divorce?”

Mycroft shakes his head. The file on Greg lies unopened in Mycroft’s nightstand. 

“The world works in mysterious ways, Mycroft. Now is your time, the dreams are proof of that.” 

“Life is not some fairytale.” He argues, although weakly. 

He thinks about Greg’s searching brown gaze, the kindness that radiates from him in the dreams.

Thinks about the tired, wide-eyed man that he had walked away from. 

Anthea snorts, “I’m glad because the Brothers Grimm are exactly that; grim.” 

Mycroft stares at her unamused. 

Anthea sighs, “Look, Mycroft. What I’m trying to say is that sometimes you have to go through utter hell. It wasn’t the right time, you know? Obviously it wasn’t the right time for him either. He was married for fifteen years, Mycroft. Neither of you have had easy lives. Far from it. But the thing is that you’re both having the dreams now, at this point in your lives. That has to count for something, right?” 

“Is this your long-winded way of telling me that everything happens for a reason?” 

A slight smile appears on her lips for mere seconds before it’s quickly replaced by her intensity. “I’m just stating the truth.” She pauses, hesitating. “I’ve dreamt about Sally for years, on and off.” 

Mycroft’s surprise is evident on his face. “You never said. For how long?” 

Anthea shrugs, “The first time I noticed her was when I was fourteen. Always a familiar face in the background.”

“And you only met on Friday?” Mycroft asks aghast. 

Anthea nods, a sad smile on her face. “Twenty-three years.” 

Mycroft can’t help the sadness that fills him at the idea. “But…how? Did you not talk?” 

Anthea forces a smile, “Unfortunately, Sally was not a DI that had her photos in papers and leading press conferences.” She sends Mycroft a pointed glance. 

“I apologise.” He murmurs. He’s only starting to realise how lucky he is, to have started his dreams lately, to have recognised the man of his dreams almost immediately. He can’t quite imagine seeing the man and _not_ knowing him for over two decades.

Anthea shrugs, “She’s recently been promoted to Detective Inspector.” There’s a sense of pride in the words,“But yet…it still would have been as long to see her.” 

“Greg could hear me when I spoke, at least…I had that impression.” Mycroft offers. 

Anthea bites her bottom lip, a fleeting sadness passes through her eyes. “It took a few years before it was clear to me that she was there for a reason. Gradually, she emerged from the background of the dreams.” Anthea glances at Mycroft, “Green hills and blue skies, no discernible location.” 

Mycroft feels a pang of guilt at this too. The dreams with Greg had mostly been just downstairs in the café. “And speaking?”

Anthea stares down at her hands clasped on her lap. “I spoke. She couldn’t hear me.” There’s a quiver in her voice, “I…I took a sign language module in university. To try.”

“Your fluency in British Sign Language.” Mycroft whispers, amazed. 

Anthea doesn’t raise her head, Mycroft can see her digging her nails into her palm. “That didn’t work either. Took me a while to realise maybe she wasn’t even in the UK, and there I’d gone and learnt BSL and we still couldn’t communicate. Had no idea what language to try next, but I would have done anything.” 

Mycroft longs to say something comforting, but the words escape him. 

Anthea raises her head, eyes shining. Mycroft has only ever seen her cry once before, and he had been dying, so his memory is a bit foggy around the edges with that. 

She forces a smile, “It was as though there was a barrier between us. Nothing helped, lip-reading was useless. I was seeing her most nights, and I couldn’t even know her name.” 

Mycroft sits in astonished silence. When he had confessed to Anthea about the dreams of Greg, she had went and found his file, ran a background check, did nothing but encourage him to follow it up. He understood her persistence now, he could identify his soulmate straight away. 

Yet all along, Anthea had been sharing two decades with her soulmate and was no closer to even learning her name. 

Mycroft had had no idea. 

“I never realised.” He whispers. 

Anthea shrugs, “It wasn’t for you to know.” 

“Still-“

“-All I’m saying is please take this chance. Don’t waste any time, alright?” Anthea interrupts. 

Mycroft nods hesitantly, the idea of Anthea’s missing twenty-three years with Sally weighs heavy on him. 

“What about Henry?” Mycroft voice breaks, “About Sherlock? How do I ever explain that?”

Anthea moves from her perch on the arm of his sofa to come sit by his side. Eyes sad, she places her hand on his cheek. Mycroft shudders at the unexpected and unfamiliar touch. 

Anthea doesn’t move away. “Mycroft, none of it was your fault.” She whispers, “You almost died. Henry can’t hurt you anymore, he’s gone. It’s been ten years. Your guilt over Sherlock’s death, and the fear left over by Henry has stopped you from living.”

Mycroft feels tears sting his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall. He is stronger than that. 

“I saved your life, Mycroft.” Anthea says softly, taking her hand off his cheek to find a tissue and wipe away the tears Mycroft had refused to let fall that came anyway. “It’s about time that you started living it, alright?”

* * *

Mycroft is reading in bed when a call from Anthea comes through. He stares at his phone in confusion, she had left to go to Sally’s three hours ago. 

“Anthea?” 

There’s muted music in the background, but Anthea’s voice is clear. “I forgot to tell you that the Prime Minister said he’d be arriving around ten tomorrow.” 

Mycroft closes his eyes, the migraine he will likely have tomorrow twinges. “Wonderful.” 

“I tried to push him off, but he demanded to see you.”

“Of course.” Mycroft says wearily, “Thank you, Anthea.” 

“I’ve sent him through everything you had prepared, and a simplified version too.” She adds. 

Mycroft snorts in amusement, surprising himself. “Perhaps still too advanced for him.” 

Anthea’s laugh sounds carefree and it warms Mycroft’s chest. “Thank you for this evening, Anthea. For everything.” 

There’s a few dreaded seconds of silence before her voice returns, “Just remember what I said, alright?”

Mycroft hears a woman call Anthea’s name, obviously Sally. 

“Of course.” He whispers, a promise of sorts. 

“Good. I’ll see you in the morning, Mycroft. Sleep well.” 

She’s gone before Mycroft can answer. 

He thinks about sleep, about the inevitability of seeing Greg in his dreams. His heart begins to race at the thought of those kind eyes. Of Greg as a whole. The safety that exudes from him. 

Before he can talk himself out of it, he’s reaching to open the drawer in his nightstand that Greg’s unopened file has been sitting in for the last few weeks. 

The picture of Greg that meets him takes his breath away. While only taken a year or two ago, Greg looks healthier. There are no deep circles under his eyes, he’s not worryingly pale. 

_Is this my fault?_

His stomach sinks as he recalls the pain in the man’s eyes after he’d stared him down with one of his much feared glares. 

Mycroft trails down the basic information about Greg, nothing that he wouldn’t have known by having some time with the man. 

_Time with him._

Mycroft chews at his bottom lip, turning over the pages.  
His professional history is marked by various awards and commendations, notes from interviews for promotions that he’d passed with flying colours. 

His latest achievement, reaching DCI six months ago, largely due to the high solve rate that he’d contributed to. 

A few pages later, there’s a small amount of personal information. The date of his marriage, the reason for the divorce. 

Infidelity on the wife’s side. 

Mycroft feels his heart ache for the man. Part of him feels anger towards the woman; how could she? 

Mycroft flicks back to the picture of Greg, gently touching the edges. Even looking at the picture, seeing Greg like this, Mycroft feels a sense of security. 

He feels _safe_ looking into Greg’s eyes. When the realisation sinks in, he closes the folder, convinced he will talk to the man in his dreams tonight. 

To take the chance that he’s been given. 

Despite it all, maybe he does deserve love. 

The very thought is dizzying. 

* * *

Mycroft is vaguely aware that he is dreaming.

But confusion washes over him at the unfamiliar location. 

Immediately a sense of panic blooms in his chest. He looks around the dim room. 

It’s an office, not the café. 

The sky outside is grey and full of an oncoming storm. 

There’s two seats in front of the large desk, filing cabinets by the door. 

There’s an old sofa in a corner with a blanket and pillow folded on an arm. The room is empty, silent. 

Mycroft’s panic has lessened, but he still feels a sense of unease. 

He walks around the room. Looking out the window, they’re on the fourth floor and Mycroft calculates that the location must be New Scotland Yard. 

He glances back around at the office he’s arrived at, it must be Greg’s. 

There’s piles of paper on the desk, an open folder laid out, there’s at least five mugs. Three are empty when Mycroft steps closer to investigate, the other two have remnants of black coffee. 

There are no personal photos in the room, no hints as to who Greg is other than an avid coffee drinker, slightly disorganised, and dedicated enough to sometimes sleep in his office. 

Hesitantly, Mycroft goes to the door, opening it he sees an empty office. 

The silence is deafening. 

As he goes to step outside, he finds he can’t even put his foot pass the threshold, no matter how hard he tries. 

Closing the door, he presses his forehead against it. He tries to control his breathing, panic has returned now that he feels trapped. 

“ _Mycroft_?” The surprised whisper comes from behind him, startling him. 

He turns quickly, only to see Greg standing by his desk, another mug of steaming coffee in his hands. 

There are dark shadows beneath the man’s eyes, he’s frowning at Mycroft with what Mycroft could only call concern. 

Mycroft wants to point out that Greg hadn’t been in the office a second ago, Mycroft should know, he is standing at the only entrance point. 

“Gregory.” Mycroft whispers, unsure of what to say. They haven’t had any proper conversations as of yet. Though, there was Mycroft’s apology. 

Greg’s lips tug in a small amused smile and Mycroft finds that he can’t stop staring. 

“Haven’t been called Gregory for about fifty years.” The tentative smile is still there, and Mycroft finds he wants to learn everything about the man. 

“I think it suits.” Mycroft still speaks quietly, as though he’s afraid that the dream will collapse around them. 

No, he _is_ afraid that it will. 

Greg glances around, confusion crossing his features as he takes in his office. 

“I must admit I was surprised by the location myself.” 

Greg frowns, “Never happened before.” He takes a sip of his coffee and makes a face that has Mycroft’s chest filling with warmth. “Shit coffee here too.” 

Mycroft can’t help but to laugh, he notices that Greg’s face lights up at the sound. “I don’t believe you’ve even had the chance to try our coffee in the café.” 

It’s hard to discern the resulting expression on Greg’s face, but there is an impression of sorrow that has Mycroft feeling guilty. 

He remembers Greg only had a glass of water in his hand the day he was there in person, that during the dreams they’d been too busy watching each other. 

“No.” Is all Greg manages, before taking another gulp. 

Mycroft stands awkwardly. 

“Can I get you anything?” Greg asks, “Tea, or coffee?”

“How-“ Mycroft wants to explain that he couldn’t physically leave the room, but Greg seems to pick up his meaning. 

Smiling wryly, he shakes his head. “Don’t even know how I got here, to be honest. Or with this.” He gestures to his mug. “Sorry.” 

“There’s nothing to apologise about.” Mycroft says softly, not expecting Greg’s gaze to fall off him, to focus on the mug in his hand that still looked full despite Greg’s previous attempts to empty it. 

“Bit of a pain in the arse, aren’t I?” Greg’s looking anywhere but at Mycroft, Mycroft’s chest aches when he sees the shake in Greg’s hands. 

“If I knew how to…leave you alone, I would.” There’s a quiver in his voice that has Mycroft moving towards him without realising it. 

Greg glances up, surprise crossing his face when he sees Mycroft inches away from him. 

“I-I know you don’t want me.” Greg forces a smile, “I’ll make my excuses to Sally in the morning, won’t bother you.” 

“ _Gregory_ -“ Mycroft whispers, voice pained. “That’s not true.”

Greg gives him a doubtful look, as though he believes that Mycroft couldn’t possibly want him. 

Mycroft realises, that’s _exactly_ what Greg believes and he feels his heart break at the thought. 

“Come for lunch tomorrow, please.” Mycroft murmurs, aching to hold the man. “I’ll make you a coffee, I promise.” He reaches out to touch Greg’s arm. His finger brushes against the bare skin of Greg’s hand and it’s then that Mycroft wakes in his bed, drenched with sweat and breathless. 

* * *

Mycroft is already at the coffee machine when Anthea arrives. 

She takes one look at him and frowns, “What’s happened?

Mycroft sets out the single espresso that he’d just brewed, the first from the machine that day and takes a sip. 

“Good?” Anthea asks, pulling down a cup for a latte before they open. 

“Mhm.” Mycroft murmurs, finishing the rest of the cup. 

“Dreams?” She asks quietly, pouring some milk in a jug. 

One thing that Mycroft knows for certain is that she is not going to give up until he tells her. 

Mycroft hesitates, “It was different. We were in his office.” 

Anthea frowns, but doesn’t comment, silently urging him to continue. 

“He, uh-“ Mycroft clears his throat, “He believes that I do not want him.” 

Anthea pauses what she’s doing, a troubled look on her face. 

“He said he was going to tell Sally he couldn’t come for lunch.” 

Anthea looks up at him, her eyes sad. “What did you say?” 

“I told him it was not true, to come for lunch and that I would make him coffee.” He can feel the blush warm his cheeks. 

Anthea looks proud of him, she smiles easily. “Brilliant.” 

Mycroft hesitates, “He…he looked more exhausted than he did on Friday.” 

Anthea goes back to making her latte, and Mycroft can tell she’s debating on whether to tell him something or not. 

Mycroft feels his heart stutter with worry. 

_Is Greg sick?_

Scenarios flood through Mycroft’s head, all of them terrifying. 

Anthea takes a sip of her coffee before meeting his gaze. “Sally believes that the dreams are making Greg ill. She said that she’s seen him go downhill rapidly over the last few weeks. I tried to match up the dates with when you told me about your dreams, because he didn’t tell her. The dates matched, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft’s heart sinks. “I’m making him ill.” He whispers in horror. 

Anthea smiles sympathetically at him, squeezing his forearm. “No, not necessarily.” She says firmly. “But the dreams themselves are definitely exhausting him.” 

The knowledge weighs heavy in his chest.

* * *

“As I have previously told you,” The strain in Mycroft’s voice must be clear to anyone at the tables near them. “This is the only satisfactory option there is.” 

Mycroft and the Prime Minister are sitting at the furthest table away from the stairs downstairs at the café. 

There’s the usual murmur of talk around them, and their meeting has been going on for far, far too long. Mycroft sits with his back to the room, folders in front of him and his laptop to his side. 

Mycroft’s eye keeps trailing towards the clock above them. Anthea didn’t say what time Greg and Sally would be here at, but the thought has him on edge. 

He wishes to himself that he had sat in the other seat, so that he would see who is descending the stairs. 

“I don’t think so.” 

Mycroft grinds his teeth, the familiar work-related migraine is not so far away. 

“You do not have sufficient experience. I have been overseeing such things for over twenty years.”

It’s then he hears Anthea’s voice and Mycroft knows immediately that Sally and Greg have arrived. 

There’s murmuring that he can’t decipher and then he feels a slight pressure on his back, as though he’s being watched. 

A shiver rolls down his spine at the thought that he could turn around and see that it is Greg’s gaze that he feels. 

Excitement too, he’s surprised to notice. 

“Then perhaps I can ask why you are not doing my job?” 

Mycroft fixes Boris with one of his most feared stares and sees the other man visibly pale. 

“I have been doing exactly that for you and those who came before you.” He manages to keep his voice smooth, but the thought of all he has lost because of his political position is still raw, and will be for quite some time. 

“If it were not for me or my advice, there would have been riots long ago. Your party would have been torn to shreds, no doubt about it.”

The other man looks down at the papers in front of him, at the carefully highlighted and annotated folder that Anthea had provided him with. “I do suppose you have a point, Holmes.” 

“I always do. Now, are we finished?” Mycroft says shortly. 

Boris merely nods, and under Mycroft’s cool stare, he starts to pack away his folders. 

“I really don’t see why you left us.” He comments as he packs, “Hardly just to run a café.” 

Mycroft feels the colour drain from his face, what had occurred had been largely confidential, only very few trusted by Mycroft had been allowed to know and to investigate. 

“A family bereavement and my own illness put things into perspective.” Mycroft is privately surprised at how calm he manages to keep his voice. 

He can still feel the weight of someone’s stare on his back. 

_Not now. Please._

Rightly sensing that he had indeed said the wrong thing, Boris closes his briefcase and stands. 

“Thank you, Holmes.” 

Mycroft merely nods, focusing on clearing up his own papers and folders. He can sense the other man standing near him as though waiting for Mycroft to stand and shake his hand. 

When Mycroft doesn’t acknowledge him, he leaves. 

Mycroft finishes clearing up, placing everything into his laptop bag to bring upstairs, he reminds himself that this is a chance to make it up to Greg for the other day. To talk to him in person. 

After he woke suddenly from the dream last night, he hand’t been able to fall back asleep. 

Taking a deep breath, with the feeling of being watched he stands and mentally tries to prepare himself. 

Turning around, he sees that Sally and Greg are seated at the table behind him. Sally has her back to him, but Greg is facing him. 

Mycroft’s breath catches in his throat at the sight, at seeing those kind brown eyes directed at him and only him, in real life. 

Greg gifts him a hesitant smile, and when Sally notices, she turns her head towards him. Curiosity alight across her face. 

He wishes Anthea was here. 

Just as the thought goes through his mind, he sees her coming downstairs with a tray of food and drinks. 

“Mycroft, isn’t it?” Sally’s voice cuts through his thoughts, making him forget himself. 

Mycroft glances at Greg who’s watching him with uncertainty. 

“I apologise.” Mycroft murmurs, walking towards the table. “Let me introduce myself, please.” 

Sally holds her hand out, “Sally Donovan.” Mycroft is surprised by the strength of her handshake. He feels there is an unsaid ‘don’t you dare hurt him’ between the handshake and her unwavering gaze. 

“Nice to meet you, Sally.” Mycroft is glad to get his hand back. 

Anthea arrives at the table before he can talk to Greg, but she goes to sit beside Sally after distributing the food. She sends Mycroft a reassuring smile. 

Mycroft moves towards Greg’s side of the table, pulse thudding in his ears. 

The uncertainty on Greg’s face softens, Mycroft receives the kindest smile in memory from the man, who extends his hand. “Greg Lestrade.” He says softly, and Mycroft feels his knees go weak at the sound of his voice in real life. 

“Nice to finally meet you.” Mycroft manages, reaching to shake Greg’s hand. 

What happens next is unprecedented. 

When their skin meets, time around them stops. 

It feels like an electric shock, just a little on the painful side. 

From Greg’s expression, he seems just as surprised. 

“ _Mycroft_.” He whispers, and Mycroft feels as though his heart will escape his chest. 

He feels such joy to be named by Greg. 

“ _Gregory_.” Mycroft’s voice is barely audible, but with the way Greg’s gorgeous eyes light up Mycroft is certain that he’s heard. 

Greg squeezes Mycroft’s hand, refusing to let it go just yet. 

“We seem to have stopped time.” Mycroft murmurs in amazement. 

All around them, the world has frozen. It’s silent and everyone in the room around them is paused mid-sentence, mid-movement. 

Greg can’t seem to hide his smile, although Mycroft notices him trying. “Never been recorded before.” Greg whispers, a blush spreading across his face. 

Mycroft brushes his finger across Greg’s skin. “You’ve been researching?” 

Greg breaks eye contact in embarrassment. “Uh, I guess. Bits here and there.” 

“That’s amazing.” Mycroft confesses. He’d only briefly looked into the notion once he started having the dreams, but had largely dismissed it. 

Now, he finds he would not be so adverse to learning. 

Greg smiles once again, making Mycroft’s heart race. “I don’t want to let go.” 

Mycroft’s forgets how to breathe momentarily upon hearing Greg’s words. “You’re a romantic.” 

Greg’s laugher is like light, “A hopeless one.” 

Mycroft feels safe under Greg’s gaze. 

“Perhaps we should let the world continue.” Mycroft murmurs reluctantly. 

Greg’s smile fades a little, but he nods. “You did promise me coffee.” 

It takes Mycroft completely off-guard when they let go of each other’s hands. 

The world comes back to itself, noises surround them, people are moving and talking. 

Greg nods at him and Mycroft sees Anthea and Sally share a private smile. 

Mycroft hesitates, suddenly awkward. “I just have to drop this upstairs in the flat, I will be back momentarily.” He gestures at the laptop bag before turning away, casting one last glance at Greg. 

Hoping that his heart calms, he gos through the café’s small kitchen. 

Damien, their chef and waiter is busy plating up some sandwiches. 

“Hello, Damien.” Mycroft says, passing through. 

“Mycroft!” Damien turns to smile enthusiastically at him. “You finally free from him?” 

“Fortunately, though not soon enough.” 

Damien glances back, a wry smile on his face. “Anthea said you’re going to be having lunch with her and her guests. When you come back down, I’ll have some soup ready for you, alright?” 

Mycroft hadn’t considered eating with the others, but what else was he going to do?

“Thank you, I should be down in a few minutes.” 

Mycroft manages to put away everything to his satisfaction and just as he’s about to leave his bedroom, he catches sight of himself in the mirror. 

He frowns at his reflection, clad in a three-piece suit; his armour. 

It reminds him too much of when he used to be the government, to when he had been in control of his own life, or appeared to be. 

His soulmate is sitting downstairs in his own café. Waiting for him to come back. 

The thought is dizzying. 

He stares at his reflection, he is not going into a war zone. He is simply going to have lunch with his soulmate and their friends.

Mycroft slips out of his jacket, dropping it onto his bed. Slowly, he rolls up his shirtsleeves, exposing his pale forearms. 

His breath comes quicker with the distinct feeling of exposure. 

Of nakedness.

Forcing himself to take measured breaths, his runs a hand through his hair, shaking out the gel that has hardened it, letting that long-hidden stray curl fall across his forehead. 

Standing up straight, he pushes his shoulders back. Posture impeccable. 

He meets his own grey gaze.

_You can do this._


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter did not want to be written, at all. Then the words started piling up.   
> So sorry for the delay & the length :') 
> 
> (Also just flagging a content warning for mentions of Greg's recent disordered eating.)
> 
> Enjoy <3

Greg watches Mycroft walk away, his hand still tingling where Mycroft had touched. 

He stares down at his hand, bending his fingers, frowning when he feels the pins and needles sensation fade, a weight weighing in his chest. 

Sally clears her throat and Greg remembers that he’s not alone. 

That he is very much in public and being observed. 

Greg is at a loss for words and Sally smiles fondly at him. “Better, yeah?”

Anthea raises a perfect brow awaiting his answer. 

Greg wonders if Sally and Anthea ever felt like this; had time stopped for them too? 

He’d been researching, reading through any articles he could find on the subject of soulmates. 

Dreams were the ultimate confirmation of having a soulmate. 

Stopping time together had definitely not been recorded, Greg would have remembered. 

He manages to nod, reaching out for his glass of water, hand shaking. 

He notices the concerned glance that passes between them but tries to ignore it. 

“Is he-“ Greg tries to find the right words, “a…politician?” 

Anthea’s sudden laugh startles him, “Lord, no. Most certainly not. He hates the sight of them.”

“But that was…” Greg nods his head, indicating the table where Mycroft and the Prime Minister had been sitting. If it hadn’t been him, it was some poor sod who was the image of him. 

Anthea’s amusement makes her eyes shine, Sally is starry-eyed watching her. 

“Exactly. Hates the sight of them.” She says easily, “He owns the café, of course. Sometimes he offers his services as a political consultant.” She shrugs, “He’ll be able to explain it better than me.” Though her smile is kind, Greg has a distinct feeling that Anthea could explain whatever Mycroft’s job is with incredible competency, if she wanted to. 

Greg tries to reconcile the Mycroft of a few minutes ago to the Mycroft of his dreams, to the Mycroft of his first day here. 

When he had arrived, heart thudding in his ears, half-regretting actually coming to the café, he hadn’t immediately recognised Mycroft. 

When Anthea had brought them to their table, an enthusiastic smile on her face, Greg had first been distracted by the fact that the man facing him from the other table had been the PM. 

As he sat and focussed on the man with his back to him, his eyes had zoomed in on the auburn hair, though slicked back with not a hair out of place, his thoughts had immediately gone to Mycroft. 

It only took a few more seconds to realise that it _was_ Mycroft in front of him, that Anthea had deliberately chosen this table. 

Greg’s eyes trailed over Mycroft’s shoulders, pushed back, _tense_ , his perfect posture. The navy pinstriped suit. It was the first time that he’s seen Mycroft in a full suit. 

In the dreams, he would always be in a waistcoat and shirtsleeves. His first time here had been similar, although that day Mycroft had worn a floury apron, sleeves rolled up. 

When Mycroft had risen to come greet them, the word _armour_ had come to Greg’s mind. 

Mycroft was gorgeous, breathtaking. 

Yet, the clearly bespoke suit seemed to make Mycroft untouchable, intimidating. 

Suit jacket, waistcoat, crisp white shirt, navy tie. Greg had even noticed a silver chain of a pocket-watch. 

The silver tie clip had stood out too. 

With Mycroft’s outfit, there was no need for a tie clip, and yet…

Greg has over twenty years experience of reading people; sometimes reading people is what gets him breakthroughs on cases. 

Reading Mycroft in that moment, the word armour had settled. 

Because without a doubt, the clothes were Mycroft’s protection today. 

Perhaps most days, Greg doesn’t know, but he would like to find out. 

Of course, it hadn’t been difficult to overhear the conversation between the two men. 

Sally and Anthea had been talking to each other and Greg left on his own had taken to watching Mycroft. 

What Greg had learned was that Mycroft’s advice was clearly heeded by all, but that there had been a tragedy that led to finding Mycroft here. 

He had mentioned a family bereavement and his own illness, and Greg felt a heaviness settle in his stomach, an undeniable weight of worry. 

_Is he still ill?_

He doesn’t realise that Sally is calling his name, he’s gone so far into his thoughts. 

Catastrophizing is something that Greg has always been adept at, but over the last ten years, he’s become a professional. He could win awards. 

The warmth of Sally’s hand on top of his startles him back into the present. 

“There you are.” Sally’s voice is gentle, she’s had some practice with this. 

As Greg’s eyes refocus, he takes a grounding breath. 

He meets Anthea’s worried gaze purely by accident; she lowers her eyes to her food immediately. 

Sally’s hand still covers his own. “Try the soup.” She says quietly, there’s an intensity to her gaze that tells Greg that she knows he hasn’t eaten yet today. 

Greg slowly takes his hand back, finds the knife to butter a slice of the brown cake bread on his plate. 

“The recipe is Mycroft’s own.” Anthea says evenly, casting a pointed glance at the bread. “It took him years to perfect it.” 

Greg can’t help but smile at the image of Mycroft in a kitchen baking. 

It creates a longing within him that is unfamiliar, a longing for a _home_ with the man. 

Greg is aware of the two pairs of eyes on him as he takes a bite of the bread. 

It reminds him of the bread that his Grandmère used to make, brings him back to those dry summers running through the fields of his grandparents farm in Brittany. 

He hums appreciatively. “S’really good.” 

Anthea grins, “Do make sure to tell him. Been trying to get him to sign up for the Great British Bake Off for years, won’t hear of it.” 

Greg is surprised by the noise of his own laughter. When he gets two bright smiles in response from both Sally and Anthea, he wonders how long it’s been since he last laughed. 

From the tears shining in Sally’s eyes at the sound, he guesses it’s been far too long. 

_Must be a depressing fuck to be around._

The thought settles heavy in his chest. 

“Reminds me of the bread my gran used to bake for us.” 

“Try the soup, it’s also Mycroft’s recipe.”

“Tomato?” Greg asks, picking up his spoon. 

“Tomato and basil. Mycroft says there’s not much one can do to make a soup so common individual, but there’s something about the batches that he makes himself that differs from our chef, Damien.” Anthea smiles sheepishly, “But please don’t mention I said that if you’re ever talking to Damien.” 

“Did Mycroft make this?” Greg asks, spoon held mid-air on the way to his mouth. 

Anthea shakes her head, “Unfortunately not. Mycroft had to prepare for his meeting this morning.” 

Greg has his first mouthful of soup and that too is comforting. “Still brilliant.” Greg murmurs, going to dip a piece of bread into the soup. 

He can imagine winter, coming home to a bowl of this, bread fresh out of the oven, Mycroft’s presence; being safe and warm. 

The three of them fall into a comfortable silence as they eat. 

Greg idly wonders when the last time he had a proper meal was. 

He notices Anthea glance briefly at her watch and Greg feels a shiver run down his spine. 

_Mycroft._

He’s been gone for what feels like too long to simply be dropping a bag upstairs. 

Greg’s heart starts to race as the scenarios start to plague his head. 

The main one is that Mycroft is not coming back. That Anthea will quickly and efficiently fob him off, say that Mycroft has been held up unexpectedly. 

The thought of leaving without setting his eyes on Mycroft one last time _aches_. 

The thought of then falling into a dream with him tonight has his stomach turning uncomfortably. 

So it takes Greg completely off guard when a shadow sits down by his side. 

“Apologies for my tardiness.” At the sound of Mycroft’s voice Greg turns his head, surprised to see Mycroft sitting down beside him. 

A tray with a bowl of soup and bread in front of him. A mug of tea steaming to his side. 

Mycroft meets his eyes, forehead creased with what seems to be worry. 

Greg should know; most of the looks he receives lately have been tinged with worry. 

Yet, taking the man beside him in, Greg can’t help his widened eyes, his sharp inhale. 

The Mycroft beside him is not the Mycroft of however many minutes ago. 

This Mycroft is similar to the Mycroft of his dreams: waistcoat, tie, shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow, the errant curl across his forehead that Greg’s fingers are desperate to touch. 

_He’s comfortable with us._

As the thought flits through his mind, it brings some lightness with it. 

Greg’s no longer drowning in the worry that Mycroft is not coming back, because Mycroft is right here beside him. 

_Safe._

Greg can’t help but smile at him. 

In return, Mycroft’s face softens into a glorious smile that makes Greg’s heart thud, makes Greg want to reach out to him. 

Mycroft’s eyes go to Greg’s half eaten soup, and then to the empty bowls of Sally and Anthea. 

“Is the food not to your liking?” Mycroft asks quietly. 

Greg feels a blush heat his cheeks, “It’s lovely.” He murmurs, suddenly shy. “I was just…” He’s at a loss for words. 

“Spiralling.” Sally supplies from across the table. 

The worried expression appears on Mycroft’s face again. Mycroft keeps his eyes on Greg, the change in his expression the only hint that he’d even heard Sally. 

Before he can say anything, Anthea clears her throat. “Would you like your soup heated, Greg?” 

Greg shakes his head, embarrassed. “S’fine. Thanks.” 

“Lovely? I want to show you something upstairs.” Anthea’s voice is low as she leans into Sally. 

Sally nods, getting up. She serves Greg with one of her looks, and Greg nods at her. 

In response she smiles, and takes Anthea’s outstretched hand. 

There’s an awkward silence left between him and Mycroft as they find themselves alone. 

“I apologise if I gave you the impression that I would not return.” Mycroft says softly.

Greg startles at the gentle press of Mycroft’s palm covering his hand on the table. 

Time doesn’t stop this time, but it still feels like an electric shock. 

He doesn’t know if he should be disappointed or not.

So Greg meets Mycroft’s gaze as he deliberately turns his hand up, intertwining their fingers. 

Mycroft’s eyes darken, mouth opening to say something but he gasps instead. 

“You feel it too.” Greg whispers, slightly breathless as he squeezes Mycroft’s hand. 

Mycroft swallows, closes his eyes and nods. 

Greg has never wanted to be held as much as he does right now. 

He wonders what it would be like to touch Mycroft, anywhere other than his hands. 

The thought makes him blush with a strange twinge of shame; he himself has only had years of handshakes. If Mycroft as much as touched his wrist, his brain would probably short-circuit. 

It’s been so long that he’s surprised at himself for daring to intertwine their fingers. 

Mycroft squeezes Greg’s hand, “We don’t appear to have stopped time again.” His voice is low, his gaze intent on Greg.

Greg feels as though his blood is burning through his veins.   
He’s spent weeks upon weeks staring at those eyes in dreams. 

Now, inches away, they look a deeper blue in the soft light. They would be so easy to get lost in. 

“No.” Greg whispers. The heat of Mycroft’s gaze wakes something deep within him. 

A shiver runs down Greg’s spine as Mycroft’s thumb slowly strokes the back of his hand. 

“Perhaps,” Mycroft muses, “That may be a good thing.” 

Greg feels his heart sink at the words, Mycroft must see it in his face immediately because he shakes his head, “I didn’t mean it-“ He pauses, clearly searching for words, “I meant to say that I doubt we would ever get much done otherwise, but…it has been a long time. I was always told I was useless at uh, flirting. If you could even class my attempt as such.”

Greg watches as Mycroft’s cheeks burn with embarrassment, Mycroft is staring down at his soup, clearly regretting he had said a word. 

Greg feels a wave of fondness run through him for the man beside him. 

“Hey-“ Greg whispers as he lets go of Mycroft’s hand, seeing Mycroft’s face fall in regret. “Myc-“ Greg brushes his fingers against Mycroft’s cheek, “Look at me. Please.” 

As Mycroft raises his head again, Greg caresses his cheek. Mycroft leans in to the touch, closing his eyes. 

“Alright?” Greg breathes. 

Mycroft’s eyes open, finding Greg again. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been called ‘Myc’ before.” 

Greg bites back a laugh, “Do you like it?” 

He nods, “Only from you.” 

Greg can’t help the smile that blooms on his face. “It-It’s been a long time for me too.” He confesses. 

Some of the tension seems to disappear from Mycroft’s shoulders at the admission. “Thank you.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for.” Greg murmurs, “This is our first time meeting in person, yeah?”

Mycroft nods, confusion written clearly across his face. 

“Well, we don’t have to reveal our deepest secrets, or our worst fears. We get to know each other, to get comfortable with each other, alright?” 

Mycroft takes Greg’s hand from his cheek and holds it between both of his own. “I must confess, I have been largely dismissive of the notion of soulmates.” 

Greg chuckles despite himself, “Yeah, I noticed.” He says teasingly, delighted at Mycroft’s resulting smile. 

Somehow, they manage to fall into a companionable silence. 

Greg picks at the last slice of bread in front of him as Mycroft eats. 

Unable to hide a yawn, Greg is embarrassed when Mycroft looks at him, eyes alight with curiosity. 

“Do you not…” Greg waves his hand in the air, “Get exhausted?” 

_From the dreams_ , he wants to add. _I was never like this before the dreams._

Mycroft shakes his head, lips pressed together. “My energy levels have remained as they always have.” 

Greg nods his head, thankful that Mycroft seems to have picked up on what he didn’t say. “Right.” He murmurs. Meeting Mycroft’s intense gaze, Greg brushes it off. “Not a young lad anymore.”

Mycroft is frowning now, creases appearing on his forehead. “It has come to my attention that these shared dreams have been taking a toll on your health.” 

It’s not a question. 

Greg stares down at his hands. “Not really something you can present at the GP with.” 

“Do you feel exhausted at all times?” 

Greg sighs, “I sleep. I know I sleep.” He hesitates, “Yet every day it feels like I haven’t slept in weeks. The first day I found this place, we were at a crime scene up the road, I collapsed. It had gotten so bad I could barely function.” 

Mycroft is silent and when Greg glances up, he’s chewing at his bottom lip, face troubled. 

“After-uh, after I saw you-I didn’t dream that night…or the next.”

Mycroft’s gaze is unwavering. “That is because I did not sleep.” 

Greg’s eyes widen, “Until the Sunday?”

“When I apologised, yes.” 

After a few seconds of silence, Greg frowns, “You didn’t sleep for two days, why?”

“I had a lot to contemplate.” Mycroft says matter-of-factly. 

Greg bites his lip, there’s a low thrum of anxiety flooding through him. 

_He didn’t want to see you again._

Greg doesn’t know how to reply, he doesn’t even try. 

Mycroft’s hand is warm against his thigh. “Gregory?” 

Greg blinks, shaking his head. Trying to disperse all those thoughts, all the noise. 

_Not enough, never enough._

Mycroft squeezes his thigh, and Greg manages to meet the other man’s eyes. 

Mycroft leans in, and Greg’s heartbeat skips at the thought that maybe Mycroft is going to kiss him.

“Gregory.” Mycroft whispers, “I was not trying to be malicious.”  
Greg can’t get his mind off the heat of Mycroft’s hand, doesn’t realise until far too late that his eyes are stinging with unshed tears. 

It comes as a shock when Mycroft’s free hand caresses his cheek. The touch of bare skin on skin tingles, Greg can’t help the gasp that erupts from him. 

“You walked into my café.” Mycroft begins, “The man of my dreams. You came in and when I saw you there, you destroyed my resolve on relationships. Proved to me that perhaps I shouldn’t have been so dismissive of soulmates, despite all proof. In your eyes, I saw hope. I can’t quite articulate how much you…how your very existence tore down all the walls I’ve spent so long building up.” 

Breathless, Greg doesn’t know what to say. He covers Mycroft’s hand with his own. 

Mycroft attempts to smile but it looks too forced, and it almost breaks Greg’s heart. 

“I had become comfortable with the idea that I would not enter into a relationship again.”

“I didn’t say we had to be.” Greg interrupts, an unexpected wave of guilt rushes over him. 

Mycroft shakes his head, “I know, darling. I know.” 

Greg’s eyes widen at the endearment, his breath catches. It’s unfamiliar and jarring. 

The emotional rollercoaster that he has been on for the last half an hour has him more exhausted than before, he doesn’t know how to feel, only that his body aches. 

“I have my reasons, but it is not a conversation for a public space such as this.” He explains, “I would not be adverse to entering a relationship with you, Gregory. But it is a concept that I’ve spent years rejecting.”

“I’ve not had good experiences in relationships either.” Greg murmurs, acknowledging Mycroft’s unsaid. 

A look that Greg could only describe as pained washes over Mycroft’s face before he can hide it. 

Greg has an inkling that what happened in Mycroft’s past was much more than infidelity and it makes him long to hold the other man.

“Perhaps you would like your coffee now?” Mycroft asks casually, his blue eyes sparkle with amusement; a breathtaking transition. 

_I could fall in love with you like this._

Greg nods, smiling as he gazes at Mycroft. Hoping his thoughts are not written across his face.

Mycroft’s eyes widen as he watches Greg, a light blush appearing on his cheeks that has Greg looking away to hide his smile. 

“Are you going to make it?” 

Mycroft hums in affirmation as they leave the table. “Of course.” He steals a glance at Greg, “We roast our own coffee here. Only the best.” 

Greg can’t help the excitement that fills him. He treasures a good mug of coffee. Lately, he’s been living off instant coffee and whatever the liquid the Met classes as coffee. 

“Haven’t had a decent coffee in weeks, yet I’ve been living on it.” 

Mycroft chuckles as Greg follows him upstairs to where the machine is. “Then I sincerely hope I don’t disappoint you.” 

With Mycroft’s back to him, Greg doesn’t hide his grin. “Nah, don’t think you could.” 

“Hello strangers.” Sally calls, she’s leaning against the counter beside the machine that Anthea is using to make a coffee for a customer. 

“I was unaware we had a new member on our team.” Mycroft says with amusement, sending a pointed look at Sally behind the counter. 

Anthea laughs as she hands the customer her coffee. “She decided its less stressful than her current job.” 

“Then I do hope she doesn’t see rush hour here.” 

Anthea snorts, “Sorry, Lovely. Lunch times see a lot of suits come in. Not pleasant. Mycroft hides away.” 

Sally rolls her eyes, “Don’t blame you.” 

“Now, I’ve promised Gregory that I would make him a coffee.” Mycroft says, switching on the coffee grinder for a few seconds. 

Behind Mycroft’s back he sees Sally dramatically mouth ‘GREGORY’ at him, every sign of imminent laughter on her face. 

Greg’s phone vibrates in his pocket and when he sees it’s the Chief Super he frowns, walking away to answer it. 

“Lestrade.” 

“Greg, we’ve just had reports of a high-profile murder down near Convent Gardens. Officers are already at the scene but we need your team.” 

Greg’s stomach swoops, even after all these years, hearing that there’s been a murder still has an effect. 

“Why not ring DI Donovan? She’s the main one at the scene these days.” 

At the mention of her name, Sally frowns. She comes over towards him. 

“This is a high-profile case, Lestrade. We need you at the scene too. Need press conference and all. The media are already hounding us, this has to be solved quick.”

While a large part of his new duty is done behind a desk, he occasionally ends up at scenes. 

“Who was it?” He asks out of curiosity.

“Never heard of ‘em. Influencer, huge online following. People are hysterical. I’ll message you locations and I’ll ring Donovan now.” With that, he’s gone. 

“Wha-“ Sally hasn’t even gotten the word out before her phone starts ringing. 

At the same time, Greg receives a message with the address. 

Anthea and Mycroft look on as Greg waits for Sally to finish the call. 

“Fuck, this is bad.” Sally groans, “We’ve got to go now.” Rushing across the floor, she pulls Anthea into a kiss, before grabbing her coat and running back to Greg and grabbing his arm. 

Greg meets Mycroft’s stunned gaze as he gets dragged out the door, he only manages to mouth the word sorry before the door has closed behind them both.

“You drive, I’ve got to ring the others.” Sally commands, digging keys out of her coat and throwing them towards Greg.

* * *

It strikes him countless hours later when a new recruit hands him a takeaway coffee that he never did manage to get a taste of Mycroft’s coffee. 

Sighing, he takes a sip and somehow manages not to gag. 

He’s waiting for Sally to finish her chat with the head of forensics before they go out before a press conference. He can hear fans outside the hotel screaming; extra patrols had to be brought over to prevent so-called fans contaminating the scene. 

He downs the rest of the horrid coffee (somehow worse than what’s back at the Yard) in a few mouthfuls. He can already feel the oncoming stress headache.

“Chief Super wants you to do most of the talking.” The frustration is clear in her voice. 

Greg frowns, “That’s not right.” 

“High-profile. Surprised he isn’t here to talk himself.” 

Greg holds up the tablet he had been scrolling through, “She got her fair share of death threats.” Then shakes his head, “Hotel security are saying the cameras were getting serviced today. I’ve got Byrne going through the employees who would know.”

Sally bites her lip, clearly annoyed she hadn’t thought of it. “Anything else?” 

“ _Her_ security guard is MIA.” 

“Fuck.” She whispers, “What are we going to say? They’re like vultures out there.” 

“We’ve done it before and we can do it again.” Greg sounds more confident than he feels.

* * *

Midday the next day, Sally walks into Greg’s office, startling him awake from where he was sleeping on the little sofa in the corner. 

_Dreamless, of course. Mycroft wouldn’t be sleeping at this time of the day._

The realisation makes Greg’s chest ache. 

“Sorry, I brought you coffee and a sarnie.” Sally looks wide-awake. She managed to get a few hours in her apartment last night but Greg hasn’t slept or gone home at all. 

Greg puts his face in his hands, sighing heavily. He’s lucky if he managed to grab half an hour. 

“You look like shit.” Sally murmurs, handing him his coffee. 

“Great, thanks.” Greg says absently, immediately taking a sip of coffee. It’s from his favourite café across the road and is heaven compared to what he’s been living on lately. 

“When’s the last time you ate something?” She stares at him pointedly, though she’s sure she already knows the answer. 

Greg’s phone vibrating on the arm of the sofa distracts them both. 

_Hello Gregory, how are you?-Mycroft_

Greg stares at the screen in confusion, “It’s Mycroft.”

Sally smiles sheepishly, “He asked Anthea to ask me to ask you for your number. I just gave it to her.” 

Greg nods, “Forgot to get his number...bit...distracting.” He murmurs, unlocking his phone. 

“Mhmm. Can be.” 

“How long did you have the dreams for?” Greg asks out of curiosity. “You and Anthea are...you both seem so used to each other.”

Sally’s gaze drops to the floor and Greg can’t see. Her face properly. 

He feels suddenly anxious, afraid that he has said the wrong thing. 

_Is there soulmate etiquette? Things you don’t ask?_

“We’ve been dreaming about each other for years. We could never communicate, could never get close enough to each other.” Sally murmurs. “Anthea counted them, 23 years.”

Greg’s eyes widen in shock, “How-“

“Started when I was fifteen, she...we became familiar faces in the background of our dreams. It must have been five years before we were alone with each other.” 

Greg had had no idea. “And you said you couldn’t talk?” He whispers.

“No. Anthea learnt BSL, I didn’t understand. But it was impossible to lipread too. Whatever is in charge of this, they didn’t want us talking.”

“And then you walked into the café on Friday.”

When Sally raises her head, her eyes shine. “Couldn’t believe my eyes.” 

“Thank you for sharing this with me.” Greg says sincerely. He’s aware he’s known her more than ten years and had no inkling about this, knows that this would not have been easy to share.

Sally shrugs, “Anthea told me Mycroft recognised you immediately when his dreams started. Lucky to have your face on TV and in the newspapers.” 

Greg’s smile falters, guilt seeping into him. “Dreams always happened in the café, but there was nothing to identify where it was.” 

Sally reaches out to touch his knee, “You’ll both work it out.Have a good feeling about it.” She squeezes his knee, “Now eat your sarnie and drink your coffee, and reply to Mycroft.” With that she’s gone. 

When Greg replies to Mycroft, a simple: _I’m okay, how about you?-G._ His phone immediately rings. 

Seeing Mycroft’s number confuses him. He downs the rest of his coffee before answering. 

“Mycroft?” 

“Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice is soothing, it washes over him and he can feel some of the tension in his shoulders ease. 

“Everything alright?” Greg asks, heart speeding up in his chest. 

“I didn’t see you last night and I worried.” Mycroft confesses. “Did you manage to get any sleep at all?” 

Greg can feel the heat in his cheeks, a warmth blossoming in his chest. 

Someone _cares_ about him. 

“I managed half an hour in the last hour.” 

Mycroft’s silent for a beat, “Please tell me I didn’t wake you.” Greg can hear the anxiety in his voice.

“No, don’t worry, darlin’.” The word comes out easily, too easily for a word he hasn’t used in years. He hears the intake of breath on the other end of the line and he closes his eyes, “Jesus, sorry Mycroft.” 

“You have absolutely nothing to apologise for, Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice is softer now. 

_Is he...smiling?_

Greg’s at a loss for words, he’s overcome by the sudden wish to be able to see the other man’s face right now. 

“I was wondering if you would like to come over for dinner tonight, if you’re not too busy?”

“We have a lead that we’re checking today, so hopefully we should be done by at least 7.”

“Wonderful.” Mycroft sounds so sincere that it takes Greg by surprise.

_He wants to see me._

“If you could, just text an update when you have an idea of what time you’re likely to escape.” 

“I’ll do that.” Greg promises. 

Mycroft hums, “Do you have any allergies I should be aware of?” 

“No, don’t worry.” Greg murmurs, unable to help the smile on his face. “And Mycroft?”

“Yes, Gregory?” 

“Thank you.” Greg whispers. 

“It is my pleasure. Please take care of yourself today.”

* * *

Their team had arrived at a warehouse they’d just gotten a warrant to search and spreading out, Greg had moved towards the office. 

The lights had still been on, and from the still-warm mug of tea that had been sitting on the desk, he’d informed his team that suspects could still be here; although it wasn’t looking promising. 

There may have been a tip-off. 

Greg had searched the office, making sure no one was in there. 

Putting on his gloves he went to the shredder to remove few pages that had gotten stuck halfway, bringing them to the desk. These papers along with the documents laid out on the desk pretty much proved that they were on the right track: Intricate details of all movements and details about their murdered influencer and the trip they were supposed to have had in London. 

They had already made two arrests.

He’s flagged that there are documents in here that need official photographs before they can be put into the evidence bags by his side. 

A sharp pain shoots through his head with such a strength, it has him convinced he’ll vomit. 

He grabs onto the desk with his gloved hands to try steady himself. Another stab of pain and Greg feels his legs go weak. The next shock of pain is so sudden that he gasps, closing his eyes to try and steady himself. 

It takes him a few minutes to let go of the desk and stand, but his hands are shaking too badly to take out his phone. 

A wave of nausea washes over him and the last thing he sees is the shocked face of the officer who’s come in with the camera to photograph the evidence. 

When Greg comes to, his body feels like cement. 

Gingerly opening his eyes against the too-bright light he groans, confusion like a wave. 

The concrete floor beneath him is definitely not his bed. 

“You fucking idiot, Greg.” Sally’s voice is close, and squinting he can see her leaning over him. “Scared the shit out of us.” 

Greg tries to sit up and finds another pair of hands helping him up. 

Once his vision returns, though still blurry he recognises the second woman as the paramedic that had helped him on Friday when he had fainted. 

Her stare is harsh. 

“Lestrade.” She says evenly, reaching to check his pupils. “You’re worse now than when I last saw you.” 

“W-what happened?” His voice is rough and he’s surprised when Sally hands him an already unscrewed bottle of water. 

“Exhaustion and dehydration. You blacked out. Your blood pressure and blood sugar levels are too low. You’re lucky you didn’t hit your head or you’d be dealing with concussion too.” Her green eyes watch him carefully, “You can’t keep going on like this, Lestrade.”

“Do I have to go to hospital?” Greg asks with dread. 

“No.” She answers evenly, “But this has been reported to your superiors and will be dealt with accordingly.” 

Greg feels like he’s been punched; the last thing he wants is to be pulled up on this. 

“Let’s help you up, right?” The paramedic says encouragingly, she reaches out to help him to his feet and he’s taken completely off-guard when Sally pulls him into a tight hug. 

Greg hesitates, confusion the overwhelming emotion that he feels. It takes him a few seconds the wrap his arms around Sally. “M’sorry, Sal.” He whispers, she only holds him tighter. 

“Chief Super wants to see you when we get back.” Sally informs him as she drives towards NSY. His phone vibrates against his leg and when he glances at it it’s an email from the Chief Superintendent himself with proof of his appointment. 

“I’m royally fucked.” He whispers. 

Sally shakes her head, eyes still on the road. “They can’t fire you for being exhausted. If they even try we have Greta from the Union on our side.” 

“You hate Greta.” 

Sally’s brief glance at him before she turns back to the road is full of frustration. “I love you, Greg. You’re my best friend, right? If there is any way I can help I’m going to use it.” 

Greg chews at his lip, almost immediately he tastes blood. 

“Water bottle in the door.” Sally says, a forced calmness in her voice. 

Greg gingerly takes the water and ends up nearly finishing the whole bottle. 

“I didn’t know it was this bad.” Greg almost doesn’t hear Sally she says it so quietly. 

“What was?”

“You, Greg. Fucking walking dead.” 

Greg closes his eyes, “I’m sorry, I didn’t-“

“Greg you’re fifty-two years of age. You need to drink water and eat food regularly, it’s never been a problem until now. You shouldn’t be collapsing every few days. I don’t understand how it’s taking such a toll on you when Mycroft is fine. I don’t get it.” 

At the mention of Mycroft’s name, Greg checks his watch. It’s half seven. “Fuck, I was meant to-“

“-Too bad.” Sally says, voice strained. “You have to go to this meeting. I have to go back to the warehouse. Just...promise me you’ll get a taxi home, right? No driving.” 

Greg nods solemnly. “I fucked up your case, didn’t I?” 

It’s a few seconds before Sally replies, she waits for a red light to turn green and then she shakes her head. “No. More paperwork? Definitely. No one was there, there was definitely a tip-off. But the stuff you found was helpful.” 

“I’m sorry.” Greg murmurs, as she takes the turn to make their way into the car park of the Yard. 

She stops the car outside the front doors. “Just...please, look after yourself, alright?” 

Greg nods, unbuckling his seatbelt. 

“And text me and tell me how you get on, right?” 

“Thanks, Sal.” 

“Yeah, well don’t scare me like that again. See you later.” 

Greg’s Chief Superintendent’s office is the floor above his and he takes the elevator. Heart thudding in his chest. His hands are still shaking, the worst case scenario would be being fired. 

_What could I even do?_

When the elevator opens, Greg goes directly to the bathrooms. He has to look twice at his reflection and he watches his own eyes widen in shock. 

_That can’t be me._

He splashes water on his face and tries to calm his breathing. He couldn’t report to one of his bosses looking like this. 

When he knocks the office door, he’s called in immediately. 

He feels his blood run cold when he sees the Deputy Commissioner sitting behind the Chief Super’s desk, with the other man beside him. 

“DCI Lestrade, please sit.” The deputy, Brian, gestures to the chair in front of the desk. 

Greg merely nods and does as he’s told. 

“It has come to the attention of your superiors that you are not in the best of health.” The Chief Superintendent, Connor, informs him. 

“The issue was flagged with your superintendent, and he forwarded to me. With the severity of the issue, I contacted the Deputy Commissioner. As the first incident went undocumented, It was agreed that he should step in as the Commissioner himself is at a conference.”

Greg nods, any hope he had of keeping his job has gone out the window. 

“Look, Lestrade.” Brian holds up a file. “This is the report from the paramedic.”

Greg nods again, speechless. 

_Terrified._

“You’re one of our best, Lestrade. There’s a reason that you’re DCI.” Brian drops the file back onto the desk. “So, what’s happened?”

Greg opens his mouth to reply, but no words come out. 

The Superintendent leans forward, “Thing is, Lestrade. Your yearly medical was four months ago, and you had top health, as always.” He shakes his head, “Is there something we should know about?” 

_What’s the MET’s protocols on soulmates? Fuck._

“I haven’t been sleeping well for the last two months.” Greg informs them, at least it’s the truth. 

_Mostly._

Connor and Brian exchange glances and Greg wants to shrink in his seat. 

“Says here you’re dehydrated. Surely you’ve been eating and drinking?” 

Greg nods, “When I have time, yes.” 

_Coffee, anyway._

Brian stares directly at him, a searching look, though nothing to the extent of Mycroft’s. 

_Mycroft._

His chest aches. 

“It’s come to our attention that you spent the night here working?” Connor prods, Brian doesn’t stop watching him. 

Greg nods once again, “Important case.” 

“You’re very dedicated.” Greg hears the underlying sarcasm. 

He shrugs, “I love the job. It’s my life.” 

Brian clears his throat and they both look to him. “Lestrade, we’re putting you on paid sick leave for a month. In order to return to work, you will have to undergo another medical and a psych evaluation. It’s been noted how hard-working you are, and the fact that you haven’t taken any time off in months. Your holidays are building up. If you do not feel fit enough to return after the month, you can choose to take vacation leave. Understand?” 

“Yes, Sir.” Greg murmurs. 

“You’re one of our most valued officers, Lestrade. Burnout is common in our profession, but it should never get this far. We can’t afford to lose you. Clear?” 

Greg nods, “Thank you, Sir.”

“We might all be workaholics, but not to a rate we put ourselves and in turn our colleagues at risk. Am I clear?” He asks standing up. 

Greg mirrors him, getting to his feet. “Crystal.” 

“Fantastic.” He picks up the file from the desk and goes to leave. “Get well.” He says to Greg holding out his hand. 

Greg shakes it and thanks him. 

Once the door closes behind him, he looks to his Chief Super who is staring at him with displeasure. “That’s you told.” He murmurs, and Greg steps closer to the door. 

_An escape._

“Your leave has been sanctioned, so wages shouldn’t be an issue. I’ll get in contact with you during your fourth week to arrange a medical and an assessment, alright?” 

“Thanks.” Greg says as evenly as he can. 

Connor just nods, “Right, get your things and leave.” 

Greg nods, saying a quick goodbye before he takes his leave. 

He goes to his office to pick up some of his things and leaves again before anyone can draw him into conversation. Sally and the rest of the team aren’t back yet. 

He throws on his coat as he steps into the elevator. He’s dying for a cigarette. 

He’s already taken his cigarette out by the time the lift gets to the ground floor, and he takes a deep breath once he gets outside the doors. 

He stands off to the side, and searches his pocket for his lighter. 

His hands are still shaking, but no one out here will care. 

He flicks his lighter and barely a spark comes out. 

_Not here. Not now._

He tries the lighter a second time to no avail and is taken off-guard by the voice beside him asking would be care for a light. 

“Fuck yes.” He groans, “Thanks.” 

A silver zippo is handed into his shaking hand, and Greg immediately lights his cigarette, closing his eyes and breathing in, feeling some of the tension fall from his shoulders. 

“Thank you.” He says gratefully, holding out the lighter to its owner. He raises his head and when he meets Mycroft’s familiar blue stare, he can feel his mouth drop open in surprise. 

“Myc.” He whispers, relief spreading through him. He feels himself smile. 

“Gregory.” Mycroft murmurs, “How are you?” Greg can see the glint of worry in his eyes and that familiar guilt fills him. 

“M’sorry I didn’t text.” He whispers. 

Mycroft’s hand on the base of his spine surprises him. “Don’t apologise, Gregory.” 

Greg wants to reach out, take the other man’s hand but various co-workers are coming and going and Greg doesn’t want to cause a scene. Mycroft seems to understand. 

_He always does._

“Would you care to stay with me for the duration of your leave?”

Greg doesn’t ask how Mycroft already knows, he doesn’t care right now. 

“ _Please._ ” He answers so low that he doesn’t think Mycroft will hear him, afraid that he sounds desperate. 

However, Mycroft’s answering smile is so glorious that Greg is certain he heard. 

“Then let’s get you out of here.” He nods towards the black car idling by the steps. “Shall we?”


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's POV
> 
> Greg agrees to stay with Mycroft for the duration of his leave. Hints of Mycroft's past come back to haunt him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this has taken so long to update. I had a plan with goals of what to accomplish in this chapter but Mycroft and Greg read it, laughed, then tore it up. 
> 
> Brief content warning: mentions of blood.

Ever since Mycroft had heard about Greg’s collapse from Anthea, the sense of unease that had followed him since he had woken that morning came to a head. 

Not seeing Greg in his dreams last night, not having _any_ dreams had been unsettling. 

Perhaps he had started to rely on that company, of the guarantee that he would see Greg every night. Somehow it had become a necessity, that he was more attached to Greg than he’d previously allowed himself to believe. 

The very thought curled uneasily in his chest, an ache; a reminder of how he’d promised himself to never let anyone else in.

Their short phone call had done nothing to ease his concern, in fact hearing that Greg had only slept for half an hour worried him more. 

Yesterday he had looked exhausted and he hadn’t eaten much either. 

_Why am I not feeling like him?_

Mycroft had talked to Anthea, who had confirmed neither her or Sally had ever been ill as a result of their shared dreams. 

Mycroft had even emailed the professor in the University of Arizona who has been heading the soulmates study, but is still awaiting a response. 

He feels that this whole situation is rapidly getting out of control for both of them. 

Not only is Greg ill, but the feelings that Mycroft has been forced to reconcile within himself have not been easy. Memories from the past few years, from Henry. 

When Anthea had told him about Greg’s collapse, his decision was made almost immediately. 

He was going to ask Greg to stay with him. There was no other option. 

It had taken less than ten minutes to get in contact with the MET’s commissioner. 

Though Mycroft was no longer ‘the British government’, his name and reputation were well-known. With his continued consulting position for the government, he still held vast amounts of power. 

The commissioner remembered Mycroft well from his help with a controversy a few years prior. 

A suspension had been suggested by Greg’s chief superintendent, but Mycroft ensured that would not happen. The commissioner was at a conference, and instead would send in his deputy commissioner. 

With Greg’s career safe, Mycroft knew he needed to go to Scotland Yard to see Greg and ask him to stay with him. 

Anthea had encouraged him to go, saying that she would sort out Mycroft’s spare bedroom, the room she had often stayed in herself. 

Seeing Greg emerge from the building, Mycroft was taken aback by how much worse Greg looked today. His own hand shook as he offered his lighter, seeing Greg breathe in the smoke as though his life depended on it.

Mycroft was overcome by the urge to gather the other man in his arms. 

He didn’t, of course. But he definitely thought about it. 

* * *

Mycroft opens the passenger door for Greg who gets in wordlessly. The smell of smoke lingers in the car, and Mycroft is surprised by the intense craving for a cigarette of his own. 

“You didn’t have to come.” Greg’s voice is quiet, weary. 

Driving, Mycroft catches a glimpse of Greg out of the corner of his eye. He’s staring blankly out the window and Mycroft feels his heart physically ache. 

“I wanted to.” Mycroft says evenly. “I wanted to be there for you.” His hands tighten around the steering wheel, the confession sits awkwardly between them and Mycroft wonders what on earth this man has done to him. 

There’s silence for a few minutes, and Mycroft’s knuckles are white from how tightly he’s holding the steering wheel. 

Greg takes out his phone, “I was meant to text Sally. Tell her I haven’t been fired.” 

Mycroft nods, focussing on the road. “She’s incredibly worried about you.” His voice is quiet, but he was with Anthea when Sally had called her to tell her of Greg’s collapse. Mycroft is silent for a beat, then the words spill out of him, “We all are. Worried, I mean.” 

Greg raises his head in an instant to look at Mycroft in shock. Mycroft catches the doubtful glint in Greg’s tired eyes from the corner of his vision. 

“Why would you be worried about _me_?” The genuine confusion in Greg’s voice makes Mycroft’s heart _ache._

“In case you hadn’t noticed. I’ve become rather fond of you, Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice is quiet, he wishes that this wasn’t happening while he was driving. On the other hand, maybe the confession had come easier than it would have been face-to-face. 

Mycroft hears Greg exhale, “I’m sorry, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft frowns, stopping at a red light he looks to Greg in confusion. “What on earth are you apologising for, Gregory?” 

“I’ve been nothing but a burden for the last few weeks.” Greg says matter-of-factly. 

A car behind them beeps their horn for Mycroft to move once the light turns green. 

Mycroft, for one of the few few times in his life, is completely at loss for words. 

Somehow this situation is worse than he ever imagined. 

He’s thankful that they’re almost back at the café, because there’s no way that he can sustain such a conversation without crashing the car. 

Mycroft glances at Greg, who’s staring down at his hands on his knees. He feels his heart stutter as he opens his mouth. 

“Gregory, you are so worthy of love. Please never forget that.” His voice shakes, it’s been such a long time since he’s spoken like this and he knows that if he wasn’t holding onto the steering wheel, the shake in his hands would betray him. “A-and if you’ll allow me, I will attempt to prove it to you over the coming month.” 

Greg stays painfully silent. 

Mycroft unlocks the door to the café as Greg stands behind him. The shake in his hands as he turns the handle and between himself and the door. 

“I was thinking that perhaps we can collect some of your belongings from your flat tomorrow, once you’re rested. Would that be alright?” He avoids Greg’s eyes as he goes to lock the door again and pull down the blinds. 

“Of course.” Greg says, glancing around the darkened room. Mycroft watches him inhale the scent of coffee that lingers in the air, and he rejoices internally when he sees the smallest hint of a smile on Greg’s lips. 

Mycroft doesn’t realise that he’s stuck in place, staring at the other man, at his hint of a smile until those dark eyes meet his own in the fading light. 

Greg’s confusion is clear when he sees, and Mycroft wishes that the words would just pour out of him; how he wants Greg to be happy, how much he’s thought about their situation. 

Everything. 

How he’s willing to break all the vows he’s made to himself over the last few years, how he’s ready to drop everything and go blindly into the dark, for Greg, _with_ him. 

The ghost of what one of Greg’s genuine smiles could be makes his heart stutter, gives him _hope._

In that moment, he realises that there isn’t anything that he wouldn’t do to see Greg smile. 

“You’ve worked in a café.” Mycroft says softly, breaking the delicate silence. 

Greg raises an eyebrow, “That doesn’t sound like a question.” 

“It’s not.” Mycroft admits sheepishly. 

How on earth does he even begin to explain how he can see people’s life stories just by looking at them? How does he explain what his brother used to call deduction?

How does he explain _any_ of it?

Greg’s eyes are alight with curiosity. “Had a summer job when I was sixteen in this horrible greasy spoon.”He makes a face, and Mycroft’s heart skips a beat. “How did you know?” 

Even if Mycroft was to admit he had a file on Greg in his bedside table, this information was not in it. 

Instead he makes eye-contact with Greg, “The nostalgic look on your face when you walked in and smelt the coffee.” It’s the honest answer, how exactly he came to the conclusion is irrelevant. 

Greg watches him intently, “I loved opening shop.” He whispers, “Getting in and just smelling the coffee, the first cup, before any of the food went on.” 

Mycroft can’t help but smile, “I enjoy the routine of opening myself.”

Greg shakes his head, running his fingers through his already messy hair, “Christ, had forgotten all about it. What was it?” Greg frowns in concentration, “Thirty-six years ago. Jesus, I’m old.”

“Nonsense.” Mycroft nods towards the door marked private, “Would you like to come up?”

Greg nods, face falling, as though he remembers just why he’s here. 

Mycroft leads him through the café’s kitchen and then upstairs to Mycroft’s flat. 

His heart thuds in his chest, this is the first time he’s allowed anyone except Anthea into his space. Ever since he’s lived here, apart from a plumber or electrician, and they were always observed by Anthea. 

After what happened with Henry, Mycroft trusted no one. Except Anthea. 

So the fact that he’s inviting a practical stranger into his home, soulmate or not, he’s shaking with anxiety. 

Mycroft unlocks his door and allows Greg in first. 

“It’s so cosy.” Greg murmurs, surprise clear in his voice. “Don’t know what I imagined, but it wasn’t this.” He looks around the sitting room, interest clear across his face.

There are rugs across the white wooden floor, in the centre of the room, a comfortable green sofa sits proudly, cushions and a quilt. It faces an old fireplace that’s been covered up, the grate now contains numerous candles. 

Above the fireplace, there’s a TV hanging on the wall, and there’s a floor to ceiling bookcase at it’s side, full to the brim. An antique coffee table sits between the sofa and fireplace, old leather-bound volumes sit in a corner. Art hangs on the walls. 

This is Mycroft’s safe space, this is his sanctuary. 

It’s Greg’s now too. 

Greg looks through to the kitchen, there’s a two seater table in the corner. The room is small, but traditionally decorated. He immediately seems to spot the coffee machine, a mini version of the one downstairs, portafilter, milk steamer; all that’s needed. 

Above the coffee machine, there’s an open shelf, full of mugs on display, souvenirs from the majority of countries around the world. 

“What were you expecting?” Mycroft asks, the curiosity burns. He takes off his coat and hangs it by the door, carefully deposits his umbrella in the holder. He reaches out a hand for Greg’s coat, and he notices the shake in Greg’s hand when he hands it over. 

Greg shakes his head, amusement in his eyes. “Modern, all harsh lines and edges. Mainly blacks and whites.” A blush colours his pale face. “M’sorry.” 

Mycroft can’t help but smile at him, “What on earth are you sorry for?” 

A _darling_ nearly slips from his lips. It hangs in the air between them, unsaid but not unheard. 

Greg scratches the back of his neck, avoiding eye-contact. “Making assumptions, I guess.”

“You are correct to a degree.” Mycroft murmurs, catching Greg’s attention again. “I lived in flats and houses exactly as you imagined for far too long. After my change in career, I wanted comfort and security. There would be no one to judge the style of my living space any longer.” 

“Until me.” 

_Does this man ever give himself a break?_

“You’re not judging it, Gregory. In fact, you complimented it. Cosy is exactly what I was aiming for.” 

Greg blushes again and Mycroft is hit with the need to hold the man in his arms. 

“If you follow me, I’ll show you to your room.” 

Mycroft points at a closed door, “That’s my room.” Then at the door opposite. “This shall be yours, beside us is the bathroom. I was going to recommend you have a bath while I prepare the food. The tub is large and the water is warm.” 

Greg pushes open the door to his room. It’s small, but still easily holds a double bed, thick pillows and a blue gingham duvet cover. There’s another fleece blanket folded on the bottom of the bed. 

The furniture is white against the pale blue wall. A wardrobe sits in the corner, and a nightstand on each side of the bed. There’s an armchair in the opposite corner, beside a shelf half-full of books.

Greg’s face is full of disbelief. 

A folded pair of pyjamas sit on the bed, beside them a small supply of toiletries, toothbrush and toothpaste, a razor; all that is needed until he collects his own belongings from his flat. 

“You didn’t have to do this.” 

Mycroft places his hand on Greg’s shoulder, but quickly lets go when he feels the other man tense. “I wanted to, Gregory.” 

Greg bites his lip, and Mycroft immediately sees the skin break, a drop of blood. “M’sorry.” Greg murmurs again, shaking his head. “Haven’t been touched in a long time. ‘Cept a hug from Sally. Handshakes.” 

Mycroft nods, “Nor have I. Not even a hug.” He admits, staring down at his feet, ashamed. “I understand.” 

He startles at the heat of Greg’s hand as it slips into his own and squeezes. The increasingly familiar spark of electricity runs through his arm. 

Time doesn’t stop. 

Mycroft can feel the tremor in Greg’s hand as he turns to face him. Greg’s free hand reaches for Mycroft, he places it gently on his cheek. “Thank you.” He whispers. 

Mycroft can’t help but lean into the touch, closing his eyes and just _feeling_ the sensation. It’s comforting beyond belief. When he opens his eyes again, Greg is watching him, a small smile on his chapped lips. 

“There is nothing to thank me for, at all.” 

The resting silence between them is heavy, they watch each other carefully. 

For a split second, Mycroft heart skips a beat when he thinks Greg is going to close the few inches of space between them to kiss him, but when he lets go of him instead, Mycroft hopes he doesn’t look too distraught at the loss of touch. 

“I’ll go have that bath then.” Greg murmurs, heading into what is now his room. 

Mycroft can only nod. “Do try relax. There’s lavender bath salts in there. You’ll find the towels on the shelf.” 

Greg nods in acknowledgment, “Great, thank you.” 

“I’ll just be in the kitchen.” Mycroft murmurs, turning around to make his way there. 

He tries to regulate his breathing, but the panic and anxiety of all of this makes his body cold, his heart thump irregularly. The minute he gets to the kitchen, he flicks the switch on the kettle for a camomile tea, hands shaking more than before. 

Mycroft quickly absorbs himself in setting the table, heating up the dinner. 

It’s after nine at night, and he’s relieved that he’d only made soup. 

He’d also taken Greg’s lack of proper food as of late into consideration, as he didn’t want to make anything too heavy. Though the thought reminded him of the worry that had curled itself around his bones at the thought of the other man being ill. 

Mycroft blames himself wholly. 

After all, his appearances in Greg’s dreams had set the man on a downward spiral in his health, both physically and mentally. 

Mycroft has seen Greg’s last medical report, from four months ago. He’d received a clean bill of health and was healthier than most his age. 

Now, it’s a completely different story, and Mycroft blames himself. 

After all, how come he is well? 

Greg’s presence in his dreams have not made him ill, nor tired. 

Yet, he fears he’s slowly killing the other man. 

Mycroft wipes a tear from his eyes with the back of his hand as he stirs the pot of freshly made vegetable soup on the stove. 

His thoughts flit around his head. Nothing settles. 

He hears the water in the bathroom, Greg’s movements. 

_He’s alive._

He closes his eyes and sees dark green eyes, filled with rage, the last thing Mycroft remembered before the darkness. 

He flinches, opening his eyes, he feels the panic take his breath and he fights for it, his knuckles turning white from how hard he grips the counter. 

Mycroft stops himself from reaching for his phone, from ringing Anthea. 

Instead he goes to the sink and pours himself a glass of water. 

_It’s been ten years._

He wishes the thought was comforting, that the years had made any difference. But he still has nightmares, still feels Sherlock’s blood cold on his hands, soaking through his trousers, still sees the scars when he undresses. 

The truth is that Mycroft is scared. 

He swallows the cold water and goes to prepare his cup of camomile tea. He puts the freshly baked loaf of bread in the centre of the table as he hears the water draining from the bath. 

His heart skips when he remembers Greg’s chocolate eyes, deep and understanding, _safe._

Somehow, he manages to get his features in order. He’s pouring soup into two bowls as Greg enters the kitchen. 

“Smells lovely.” Greg’s voice is soft, and a lavender scent hangs around him. It mixes with Mycroft’s deodorant, familiar but different on Greg. 

It sets Mycroft’s heart off again, heartbeat increasing when he looks to Greg. 

There’s a tired smile on his face. It doesn’t reach his eyes. 

The pyjamas that Mycroft had provided are loose on him, and Mycroft can’t help his smile of amusement when he notices that Greg has had to fold the bottoms up so they wouldn’t be dragging against the floor. 

Greg’s hair is in disarray, and Mycroft feels the heat run through his veins. He wants to reach out and touch the other man. His fingers tingle as though he has pins and needles.

He wants to trail his fingers through Greg’s hair, he _wants_ -

“Vegetable soup.” Mycroft murmurs, hoping there’s no heat clear on his cheeks. He gestures to the already set table, “Please sit.”

Greg sits and picks up a knife to slice the bread. “You make wonderful bread.” 

Mycroft places the bowls of soup on the table and goes to sit across from Greg. “Oh?”

Greg nods, buttering his slice. “Reminds me of my gran’s bread and summers in France.” 

Mycroft can’t help but smile a that, a little proud. “I’m glad.” 

Greg dips his bread into the soup. But looks to Mycroft before he raises it to his mouth. “Did you make the soup too?” 

“Earlier today, yes.” Mycroft busies himself with buttering his own bread. 

His head shoots up at the little hum of pleasure, heart skipping a beat. 

“S’good.” Greg murmurs, “Comforting.”

“That’s what I aimed for.” Mycroft murmurs, watching Greg pick up a spoon and sipping on more soup. 

_He’s eating._

Mycroft is more than a little relieved. 

“Did you always bake?” Greg asks after a few minutes of easy silence. He’s reaching out to fetch another slice of bread and Mycroft has to remind himself to breathe. 

“No.” Mycroft says softly. “My main reason was I had no time. After-“ Mycroft pauses and he sees Greg’s gaze sharpen. 

Swallowing down the sudden panic, he continues. “-When I opened the café, we had Damien as chef, but I started attending cookery classes; it quickly became a much-loved pastime. When there is time I sometimes prepare food for the café. Though when it comes to the café, I prefer working with the coffee.” 

Greg nods, thoughtful as he chews. “How long have you had the café?”

Mycroft looks down at his bowl of soup;it’s an innocent question but he _knows_ it’s going to be followed by questions of why he decided to change careers. 

“Eight years at this point.” He’d spent the previous two years ‘recovering’: Consulting but unseen. 

Somehow it had turned into ten years, and yet the wounds are still as raw as the day they happened. 

When Mycroft looks up from his soup, he meets Greg’s kind gaze. 

“If I ever ask anything you don’t want to answer, Mycroft, just say so.” Greg’s voice is calm, and Mycroft’s shaken by the fact that Greg can read _him._ That Greg can just take one look at him and see his discomfort. 

_Have I really become that lax? Can others see me like this?_

Greg moves his hand slowly across the small table, his gaze searching before he touches Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft merely nods and suddenly Greg’s warm hand holds his. 

Mycroft gasps, despite himself. 

This time, the warmth adds to the static feeling in his fingers, it travels down his arm and into his chest. It’s like electricity, and Mycroft can only stare at Greg, mouth agape. 

Greg’s breathing is slightly heavier, but he intertwines their fingers and the sensation echoes throughout Mycroft’s body. 

“I can read people, didn’t get to where I am in my career without that skill.” Greg’s still watching him, “Don’t worry though, Mycroft. You still terrify the PM. That much was clear.” 

Mycroft can’t find any words, so all he does is squeeze Greg’s hand and watch the man across from him. He feels the muscles in his face pull into a smile against his will and Greg gifts him with another kind smile in return. 

And Mycroft feels _seen._

Mycroft finishes his camomile as Greg finishes his soup, and Mycroft can’t help but feel himself relax a little. Greg had eaten an entire meal for the first time in who knows how long. 

“That was really nice, Mycroft.” Greg says before yawning. “Thank you.”

Mycroft waves his hand dismissively, “I’m glad you enjoyed it. Would you like to go to bed? I can clean up here.” 

Greg shifts uncomfortably, “A-are you planning to sleep tonight?” 

Mycroft finds he has to look away from Greg’s gaze. “I-“ He says lamely, “I thought it would be best not to. You need a proper night’s sleep, Gregory.” 

“You can’t just not…sleep because of me.” Greg whispers. 

Mycroft raises his head, frowning. “The fact is that _you_ need an actual night’s sleep, devoid of dreams of me. So yes, I will stay awake.” 

A series of emotions wash across Greg’s face before he fixes Mycroft with a stare. “You feel guilty.” Greg murmurs, “This is why you’re doing this.” 

“Your health-“ 

“You pity me.” 

“No.”

“You do. Just like everyone else that knows me.” Greg moves to stand up.

“Gregor-“ Mycroft mirrors him, heart thumping in his chest. 

“Why bother?” Greg’s voice is so full of despair that Mycroft doesn’t have time to talk himself out of taking the other man into his arms. 

Mycroft holds Greg close, one hand on his lower back, and the other cradling his head. 

“Gregory.” Mycroft breathes, he feels tears burn his eyes, Greg buries his head in Mycroft’s shoulder, and wraps his arms around Mycroft’s waist and Mycroft feels some of the tension ease in Greg’s body. 

“Gregory.” Mycroft murmurs again, and the other man only tightens his grip on Mycroft’s body. Greg can probably hear Mycroft’s heart as it tries to beat its way out of his chest. 

Mycroft’s breath is coming fast and hard and he can’t quite tamper down the panic that fills him. 

He hasn’t been held like this, hasn’t held anyone like this in ten years, and the sensation is overwhelming. Greg’s warm and solid against him, his grip sure and he smells like lavender and Mycroft’s deodorant. 

All Mycroft’s senses are overwhelmed and his head _aches_ so much that he feels like he’ll be sick.

“Mycroft?” Greg lifts his head from Mycroft’s shoulder and whatever he sees in Mycroft’s face makes him pale. “Hey-“ Greg says softly, “Sofa, now. C’mere.” 

Mycroft doesn’t remember the short journey to the sofa, just the warmth of Greg’s hand in his followed by the sofa underneath him. 

“Mycroft?” 

Mycroft turns to Greg, and tries to blink to clear his vision. 

“You need to breathe, love.” Greg’s voice is gentle, but the endearment seems to bring Mycroft back to the room. 

“I apologise-“ Mycroft begins, but Greg holds up a hand to stop him, shaking his head. He shifts to sit closer to Mycroft, their bodies touching, “You alright?” 

Mycroft nods, his heartbeat is slowing but there’s still remnants of the panic in his system. 

“Was that-“ Greg pauses, as though he’s searching for the right words, and Mycroft finds he can look at Greg again without shame. 

“Because of the hug?” Greg asks, “I mean, you said you hadn’t touched anyone-“ 

“I haven’t held anyone in ten years.” Mycroft says quietly, trying to put Greg out of his misery. “I wanted to comfort you, I did not expect the feeling to be so…overwhelming.”

Greg leans into him and it’s oddly comforting. “M’sorry for over-reacting.”

“I care about you deeply, Gregory.” Mycroft murmurs, staring down at his hands, “Nothing I do for you will ever be out of pity.”

“I guess I’ve just been feeling so…hopeless lately.” 

Mycroft nods in understanding. “I was hoping we could get you back on your feet while you were here. But I also wanted to test a theory.”

“Oh?” 

Mycroft shifts uneasily, “I was wondering would our proximity to each other stop the dreams.”

Mycroft watches Greg’s thoughts fly across his face, he’s silent for a beat as though he’s thinking it through, then he turns to Mycroft, a small smile on his face. “That’s bloody genius, Mycroft.” 

It’s been a _long_ time since someone’s called him a genius. 

“It may not work. However, considering our situation is not common amongst current records..”

Greg raises a brow, “So you’ve been researching too?” 

Mycroft feels himself blush, “Yes. I’ve contacted the head of the American study, and am awaiting a response.” 

“He’d have all the data too, all the stuff that hasn’t been published?”

Mycroft nods, “It’s my hope that during his studies he encountered a subject with ill health solely related to their dreams.” 

“Surely there has to be someone else?”

Mycroft sees the hope in Greg’s tired eyes and he nods in agreement, “Anything is possible.”

Greg yawns again and Mycroft places his hand over Greg’s on his thigh. “Perhaps it’s time that you got some rest, Gregory.” 

Greg sighs deeply, nodding in agreement. When he looks at Mycroft, the word that comes to Mycroft’s mind is _shy._

“With your theory…” Greg says softly, “What will our sleeping arrangements be?” 

Mycroft feels the colour drain from his face at what Greg’s getting at. He should have explained clearer. “You have your room, and I my own. I apologise if you thought I was taking liberties and presuming-“ 

Greg squeezes Mycroft’s hand, his thumb circling and Mycroft finds the sensation calming. Amusement is written across his face and Mycroft feels his heart stutter for reasons that don’t involve anxiety or panic. 

“You’re a right gentleman, Mycroft.” A smile is threatening and Mycroft hopes it manages to fight its way onto Greg’s lips, his dark eyes sparkle with amusement. “Just wanted to check we were on the same page.”

Mycroft can only nod in embarrassment. 

Greg leans into him further. “To test this theory you need to sleep tonight too, right?”

“I suppose so but-“

“No buts, darlin’. You’re not missing out on a night’s sleep for me.” 

_Darlin’_

Mycroft’s chest aches. It’s been so, so long. 

He merely nods, letting the word hang in the air between them. 

“Good.” Greg murmurs, “Do you want help cleaning up?” 

Mycroft shakes his head, “I can do that while you’re brushing your teeth, etcetera.” 

Greg stands, holding his hand out for Mycroft to take. 

Mycroft can’t help but take comfort in Greg’s warmth, the tingle that trails down his arm in response to the touch. 

Both standing facing each other, they watch each other. 

“Goodnight, Gregory.” Mycroft says softly, “I hope you have a dreamless sleep.” 

Greg steps forward, but hesitates. “Can I hug you? Would that be too much?” 

Mycroft pauses for a second to consider. “Perhaps not. We could try.” 

The smile Mycroft receives in response is enough to stop his heart. 

Greg’s eyes light up and for the first time, his laughter lines are pronounced on his skin. It occurs to Mycroft that he must have been a man to laugh and smile often before all this. 

His smile though, his smile could brings ships safely to shore. 

Mycroft doesn’t realise that he’s staring a Greg open-mouthed in shock until Greg tilts his head, amusement shining in his eyes. “Myc?” 

_Myc._

Mycroft can feel the heat rush to his cheeks, but he shakes his head, deciding to tell the truth. 

“Your smile is wonderful, Gregory. Absolutely stunning.” Mycroft blushes harder when he hears the shyness in his own voice. “I’m honoured to be able to see it.” 

Greg actually _laughs_ at that, amusement and joy written across his face. He reaches out to hug Mycroft, it’s short but warm and comforting beyond belief. 

Instead of finding it overwhelming, Mycroft feels like he wants _more._

Greg’s still smiling when he lets go of Mycroft, “You are a bloody romantic, I knew it.” 

All Mycroft can think is _I could fall in love with you like this._

Mycroft begins the clean up from dinner as Greg goes to prepare for bed. 

It’s odd to hear the sound of another person in his flat. He’s used to the silence, perhaps too used to it. He finds hearing the sounds of Greg’s footsteps, the water running in the bathroom, is oddly comforting. 

He doesn’t feel alone. 

For the first time in a long time he doesn’t feel _lonely._

The fact that he has a person in his home that isn’t Anthea, and that isn’t being supervised by Anthea is something he had not expected would ever happen. 

That he feels _safe_ with Greg here is enough to make him reconsider all the promises he had made to himself to never get involved with anyone. 

The fact that he’s allowing himself to care about Greg is terrifying but liberating at the same time. 

Mycroft’s putting the bowls back into the cupboard when Greg comes out of the bathroom and Mycroft turns in his direction. 

Greg smiles at him again, it’s tired but there’s no tension in his posture. “I’ll see you in the morning, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft nods, “Sleep well, Gregory.” 

“You too.” And with that, he disappears into what’s now his bedroom. 

Mycroft leans back against the counter and covers his face with his hands, exhaling deeply.

All the stress from the day slowly leaving his body. 

Greg is better off here with him, Mycroft can take care of him here. 

He’s made the correct decision. 

Mycroft meets his own eyes in the mirror over the sink as he brushes his teeth. 

He still recognises himself, of course. But he feels like today has changed him permanently. 

Closing his eyes he thinks about holding Greg in his arms. The closeness, the warmth. 

When he opens his eyes again his breath is coming fast and hard. 

_Useless._

Henry’s voice echoes in his head and he quickly finishes his bedtime routine, his hands shaking so bad that it’s a struggle not to drop the toothbrush. 

Mycroft checks his phone when he gets to his room, closing over the door. 

_[23:15] How are things going?_

He stares at Anthea’s message for a few minutes unsure of what to say. He knows she’s checking in for a reason and he’s grateful. 

_[23:47] Greg ate dinner, is now gone to bed._ He decides not to add in the panic attack he had when they held each other, or Greg’s declaration of hopelessness. _Bed for me too. Testing out the proximity theory I had._

_[23:49] Good. Glad you’re going to sleep tonight too. If you need me I’m always a phone call or text away, alright?_

_[23:50] Thank you, Anthea. Sleep well._

_[23:51] You too. See you tomorrow x_

Mycroft stares at his phone for a minute. There’s been many times he’s needed Anthea at a moments notice in the past few years, and she’s always been there. 

Anthea had even stayed with him during the nightmares that were brought on by his PTSD after Henry and Sherlock. 

Having dreams of Greg: the handsome, capable, and compassionate DCI that he’d often seen on the news or in newspapers had been the perfect antidote to the less frequent nightmares. 

Coming to terms with the soulmate issue had been a struggle; Greg’s hopeful expression the first time they met and Mycroft had turned and left haunted him for the following two days. 

Now, with the man in the bedroom across from him, he’s happy he came around.

* * *

_Mycroft desperately tries to search for the light switch. The corridor to his office is in darkness and his heart is already in his mouth._

_The text from Henry with the picture of Sherlock._

_He knew immediately from the rug that it was his office, the office that no one should have access to beyond himself and Anthea._

_When he finds a light switch by feeling along the wood panelled walls, he presses it but no lights come on._

_“SHERLOCK” He screams, and his voice echoes throughout the corridor._

_He trips over the legs of a chair, falling to the tiled floor with a thud. For the life of him, he can’t find his phone even though he knows he has to have it because of the text._

_A dull, pained shout is muffled by the door of his office and Mycroft scrambles to his feet again, starts running until he finally gets to the door._

_It’s locked, and he has to push it in with his shoulder. When he gets in, he immediately steps into a pool of clotted blood, he’s met with angry green eyes, a furious Henry holding out a blood stained knife._

_Looking to the side, he sees his brother on the floor, blood all around him and he tries to get to him, but he’s caught by Henry, knife to his throat-_

* * *

“Mycroft!” 

Mycroft jolts in his sleep, waking at the unfamiliar voice immediately. 

“It’s Greg, you were having a nightmare.” Greg is sitting on the edge of his bed and Mycroft feels too weak to sit up, his whole body shaking. 

“Gregory.” Mycroft breathes, some of the tension leaving his body when he sees those kind brown eyes. 

Greg reaches out a hand, covering Mycroft’s shaking one. “I’m here, Myc.” 

“I-“ Words fail him. 

“You were shouting in your sleep, thought it best to wake you.” He squeezes Mycroft’s hand. 

“I woke you.” It’s not a question, but the disappointment in Mycroft’s voice is clear. Despite the fact that he’s just woken from the worst nightmare he’s had in months, he’s woken the man who _needs_ sleep. 

This did not fit in with the plan. 

“Don’t you dare.” Greg says quietly, intertwining their fingers. “I can see your thoughts on your face, darlin’, you’re not to blame yourself for this.” 

“But-“

Greg shakes his head, “You had a nightmare. And did you know, I wasn’t dreaming at all before I woke.” There’s the hint of a smile on his face, “I think you were right about being close to each other.” 

Mycroft manages to sit up, aided by Greg who moves closer to him. 

“No dreams?” He asks weakly. 

“None.” Greg tilts his head, “Five hours dreamless sleep is a record.” 

“How do you feel?” 

A thoughtful expression crosses Greg’s face. “Rested. Less heavy.” 

“But there’s still a long way to go.” 

Greg nods, “I suppose. Months of exhaustion can’t just be erased by one night’s sleep. More worried about you though.” 

“It’s a long story.” Mycroft murmurs, looking down at their hands, Greg holding Mycroft’s right hand. 

Something about the image is comforting, but a headache is coming on and his thoughts are not as clear as they should be. 

Greg watches him for a second, “You can always tell me. I’ll listen, y’know.” 

The thought of telling Greg what happened that night is terrifying. 

_He has to find out sometime._

A voice of logic informs him. Mycroft acknowledges that. 

Greg is a DCI in the serious crimes division, Mycroft reminds himself; he sees murders nearly every day. He’d understand. 

He looks to Greg’s reassuring gaze, the aura of safety that exudes from him. 

“Perhaps over some camomile tea?” 


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Mycroft's & Greg's POVs
> 
> Mycroft discusses his past, Greg listens.  
> Touch becomes even more important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys,  
> I'm just flagging a trigger/content warning for past domestic violence and an abusive relationship in the first half of this chapter.  
> Mycroft explains what happened in his previous relationship. I've updated the fic tags to add this too.  
> So please stay safe. 
> 
> The second half of the chapter switches to Greg's POV and doesn't focus on what Mycroft talked about. There is also a cat now (thanks Twitter people). 
> 
> Thank you for reading <3

Greg offers to go boil the kettle for them and leaves when it’s clear that Mycroft is regaining his strength. He only leaves when Mycroft manages to sit up the bed, noticeably less shaky. 

Mycroft’s heart thuds in his chest and he’s not sure if it’s leftover adrenaline from the nightmare or the fact that he’s going to tell Greg about Henry and Sherlock. 

Perhaps both. 

Mycroft pulls his dressing gown from where it hangs on his door and wraps it around him tightly. 

It won’t be the first time that he’s talked about this, but it is the first time that he’ll be telling someone that isn’t a qualified psychologist. 

Anthea knows only because she was there. 

Mycroft shakes his head, and takes a deep breath before making his way towards the kitchen. 

Greg stands there, leaning against the counter staring out the window as the kettle boils. 

He gifts Mycroft with a kind smile, “Don’t think I’ve paid attention to a sunrise in years.” 

Mycroft glances out at the orange sky. “Unfortunately we can’t see much of it from here.” 

Greg hums softly in agreement. “Maybe we could go somewhere?” His cheeks are pink, and Mycroft’s brain kindly supplies _he’s shy_ and he feels another wave of fondness for this man wash over him. 

“I’d enjoy that.” Mycroft says honestly. “By the sea?” 

Greg’s face lights up and all Mycroft can think about is about how utterly gorgeous the man is. 

“That would be brilliant!”

_If you still want to associate with me after what I’m about to tell you, of course._

Greg seems to catch on to Mycroft’s thoughts and shakes his head. He places his hand atop Mycroft’s on the counter and Mycroft gasps at the sudden shock of electricity that shoots up his arm. He looks from their hands up to Greg who only smiles back. “I think it gets stronger the more we need it.” 

Mycroft looks back to their hands, turning his own over so that he can intertwine their fingers. The tingling sensation simmers at all the places their skin touch.

_What would it be like if he touched me anywhere else, what if he kissed me?_

Mycroft keeps his gaze on their hands, he can feel the heat of a blush in his cheeks. “I believe you may be correct.” He murmurs. 

“I’m glad. Now, where do you keep your camomile tea?” Greg doesn’t let go of Mycroft’s hand.

Greg fetches anything required with his free hand, refusing to let go of Mycroft’s hand. 

Mycroft is silently grateful, the warmth of Greg’s skin, the security it brings is soothing. 

They stand in silence, watching the tea leaves steep in their respective mugs. Greg’s thumb strokes the back of Mycroft’s hand and Mycroft finds himself closer to Greg. Shoulders touching.

Mycroft’s skin still tingles where it touches Greg and from the slight smile on Greg’s lips, it’s clear that he feels it too. 

“What about Dorset?” Greg asks, breaking the comfortable silence.

Mycroft closes his eyes, thinking of the Jurassic Coast, the cliffs and the Durdle Door. The thought of sitting with Greg, _preferably in Greg’s arms_ as they watch a sunrise colour the sky and usher in a new day. Then doing the same for the sunset. 

“That would be exquisite.” 

Greg squeezes his hand, “Might even be able to see the stars. London is useless for that.” 

Mycroft hums in agreement. “I don’t believe I’ve seen the stars in quite a while.” 

“Then Dorset it is.” 

“Indeed.” Mycroft can’t help the smile that crosses his lips despite the heavy weight of the anxiety and dread in his chest. 

Greg’s gaze falls to their mugs of tea. “Are they done?” 

Mycroft bites at his bottom lip and nods _no use in trying to prolong it, he needs to know._

“I’m still waiting for my coffee, by the way.” Greg murmurs, humour in his voice, deliberately trying to ease the tension. 

Mycroft snorts, “You’ll have expectations so high that you’re going to be sorely disappointed.” 

Greg meets Mycroft’s eyes. “I don’t think I could be disappointed in anything you do.”

_Just you wait._

They carry their mugs to the sofa and Greg pulls the quilt off the back of it and he sits close to Mycroft’s side, putting the quilt over them both. 

“Thank you.” Mycroft murmurs, momentarily taken aback by Greg’s thoughtfulness. 

“Just...” Greg begins, “If you want to stop talking, by all means do. I know how difficult reliving things from the past can be. See it all the time with statements.” He squeezes Mycroft’s knee reassuringly through the blanket. 

“Thank you.” 

“You don’t need to thank me, Mycroft.” Greg smiles at him, giving him the opportunity to start talking whenever he wants. 

Mycroft takes a long sip of warm tea, holding the mug in both his hands. “Ten years ago, my brother was murdered and I narrowly avoided death myself. It was my fault entirely.” 

He hears Greg inhale deeply, clearly not having expected Mycroft to say what happened immediately. “Sherlock?” He asks quietly. 

Mycroft’s eyes widen in surprise. 

Greg catches his thoughts. “You were calling out for him in your sleep.” 

Mycroft relaxes slightly at this; the thought that Greg had run into Sherlock in his earlier policing days put immediately to rest. 

“I was in a relationship with a man named Henry for two years at that point.” Mycroft swallows. “Through much therapy, I’ve come to the acceptance that it was an incredibly abusive relationship, though at the time I refused to see it.” 

Greg squeezes Mycroft’s knee again, his face open and not an ounce of judgement to be seen. 

“Sherlock was a drug addict.” Mycroft glances at Greg, “Cocaine.”

“Parents?” Greg asks softly. 

“Dead.” Is the simple reply. “They died when I was twenty-two and Sherlock sixteen. They were never what you would call emotionally available. I played a large role in raising my brother.” He hesitates, “After university, I was recruited to MI6.” 

“A spy?” Greg asks surprised. 

“For a time, yes. I was injured during field work, and was cross recruited into the government. News had spread about my intelligence and skill in decision-making and analysis.” 

“Cross-recruited?” 

Mycroft nods, “I had a unique job description. I was also involved in MI5. The point is that my career was my life and incredibly secret.” 

“And now?” Greg whispers. 

“Now I consult on a freelance basis and no longer exclusively to the British government. There is a relatively minor risk on my safety.” 

“Christ, Mycroft.” 

“I had developed a reputation of an ice man. Many believed I had no emotional connection to anything.”

“Except Sherlock.” Greg supplies as though he can read Mycroft’s mind. 

Mycroft nods, “I sent Sherlock to Edinburgh to study chemistry at university level. Shortly after, I met Henry at a function I was required to attend. He was the accountant for the charity the event was in aid of. For the first time in my life, I was having an easy conversation with someone who seemed genuinely interested in me.”

_I sound pathetic._

“It perplexed me, I was heavily bullied throughout my education and had no friends. Anthea had been working for me for two years at that point and she was closest to me. I was hesitant to class her as a friend because I employed her. She told me in a typical Anthea fashion that I was an idiot.” Mycroft can’t help but smile at the memory. 

Greg smiles at him too, “From what I’ve seen of her, I can easily believe that.” 

“Henry seemed to effortlessly insert himself in my life. I was content. Sherlock returned to live with me when the summer began. Henry did not live with me, but he might as well have, he seemed to always be there. He and Sherlock detested each other.” Mycroft bites his bottom lip. 

“Henry wanted me to set Sherlock up somewhere else. I refused.” Mycroft pauses, “That’s when the problems began.” 

“I suffered from eating disorders throughout my teenage and adult life. I was obese as a child, and was terrified of going back to that weight.” Mycroft stares down at his tea. “Henry began to insinuate that I was gaining weight. I was not; I knew this because I regularly weighed myself.” 

There’s no pity on Greg’s face when Mycroft manages to look up at him. Only understanding. 

“He planted the seeds of doubt in my mind. He’d constantly make comments on my weight, my appearance. I began to restrict my meals. He’d convinced me that I was _lucky_ that he was sticking around. That I was becoming an ugly burden. I began to noticeably lose weight, I was barely eating. He still told me I was gaining weight, that no one else would stick around.” Mycroft takes another long sip of tea. “I believed him because no one else had ever shown any interest in me.” 

“And Sherlock saw this?” Greg asks quietly. 

Mycroft nods, “He confronted Henry when I was away in Brussels for three days. I returned and Sherlock had a black eye.”

Greg nods as though he expected what Mycroft had to say. 

“Henry became... _rougher_ with me, in all ways as punishment. I regularly had to hide bruises. He told me no one else would ever want me, that no one would believe me. That I was pathetic.”

Greg gently takes one of Mycroft’s hands away from his mug to hold. The comfort of the warmth spreading throughout his hand and arm is like a hug. 

It reminds him that he’s safe with Greg. 

“Sherlock went back to Edinburgh for the new academic year, but it didn’t get any easier with Henry. Anthea was worried. I...I was terrified.” 

“Of course.” Greg squeezes his hand and the warmth intensifies. 

“I believed him. I was indeed pathetic. There I was, one of the most essential people in Britain, yet I was too afraid to leave the man who was slowly killing me. And he knew it, he often told me so.”

Greg still looks at him with no pity, still just understanding, and Mycroft wonders how he does it. 

“A few months into the university year, Sherlock dropped out with a bang. He came back to live with me. It was immediately clear to me that he was on drugs. He’d disappear for days, I was beside myself.” 

Greg leans against him. “And money?” 

Mycroft shakes his head. “No job, but we both had a sizeable inheritance from our parents. Obviously I had no control over how Sherlock chose to spend his money.” He pauses, chest heavy, “I sent him to the best rehabilitation centre there was.” 

“But no luck?” 

“No.” Mycroft says softly, a hint of defeat in his voice. “When he came home, he tried to get me to leave Henry. Shortly after, he stopped.” 

Greg’s watching him intently, and he sees the second that Greg pieces it together. “Christ, Mycroft. Henry?” 

Mycroft nods, “I was unaware. Henry was providing Sherlock with ample funds to feed his addiction in return for Sherlock’s silence. I only discovered this a few days before his death.” 

Mycroft is silently thankful when Greg starts to stroke his hand, the warmth that comforts him comes in waves with each stroke of Greg’s thumb across his skin. 

“I ended up in hospital with three broken ribs.” Mycroft confesses, “Anthea came to collect me and we came up with a plan to help me leave him. I was...a mess. I was exhausted, severely underweight, and in agony. But I was terrified, and Anthea and myself both knew that Henry would use that against me.” 

Greg hums in agreement, clearly experienced with cases of domestic violence. With one glance, Mycroft can see the thinly veiled distress in Greg’s eyes. 

“It was then that Anthea had found evidence of the money he was giving Sherlock in a exchange for silence. She removed Sherlock from the house. While Henry didn’t officially reside with me, he spent most of his time there. My security detail was increased but I refused to let Anthea notify them of my circumstances; an immeasurable mistake on my part. I would have greatly benefited if there was someone within my house to protect me. However, I was ashamed. I put an end to our relationship and gave him a window of two days to remove all his items. I...” Mycroft struggles, closing his eyes and seeing Henry’s green ones shining in his memory. 

“Hey, darlin’.” Greg whispers, placing both their mugs on the coffee table. Greg’s palm against his cheek makes Mycroft open his eyes, and he’s greeted with Greg’s comforting brown eyes, with safety and warmth. “You don’t have to tell me. You don’t have to relive this. I’m with you from here on out regardless, alright?” 

Mycroft blinks, _I wish._ “It was my fault. Why would you-“ 

“Mycroft, none of this was your fault. None of it.” Greg whispers. 

“He killed my brother to punish me.” Mycroft breathes, the words still hurt. Sherlock and him may not have been the closest of siblings, but he had been Mycroft’s world regardless. “And I was too much of a coward to leave him at the beginning. I could have prevented it all.” 

Both Greg’s hands cradle his face now, and the warmth that emits from where their skin touches is enough to make Mycroft gasp. In a way, it’s as though he’s being wrapped up safe in Greg’s warmth. 

“Leaving an abusive relationship is difficult, Mycroft.” Greg’s voice is soothing, he keeps his hands on Mycroft’s cheeks. “And it’s completely understandable that you were terrified. From what you’ve told me, he was highly dangerous and calculating.” 

“I need to tell you the rest before you-“

“Darlin’, I’m not going to leave you.” There’s no hint of a lie on Greg’s face, instead only open honesty. “You are not what happened in your past, right? You’re Mycroft here and now.”

Mycroft can’t help but stare at the man in front of him, of the man _holding_ him in astonishment. 

“I promise.” Greg whispers, the words loud between them, Mycroft watches Greg and he wants to be held. 

“C-can I hug you?” Mycroft breathes, his heart beginning to thud. 

Greg’s resulting smile is gentle, his eyes understanding. Slowly he takes his hands from Mycroft’s cheeks and holds out his arms. There’s only inches between them, and Mycroft finds it’s so easy to close those few inches and wrap his arms around Greg. 

_Trust,_ his mind supplies, _This is trust._

Mycroft rests his head on Greg’s shoulder, he’s content in Greg’s arms. He closes his eyes and listens to Greg’s even breathing. His nose by Greg’s neck, allows him to smell Greg. He smells faintly of Mycroft’s deodorant he used after his bath last night, but there’s something _more_ and Mycroft craves to discover it fully. 

This hug is not overwhelming, not like the unexpected one last night. Mycroft finds that he’s not panicking, that there’s no flight or fight response to it. 

Instead, he feels the tension fade from his shoulders as he lets himself be held. 

Greg’s hands slowly stroke his back, the motion calming and repetitive. 

_Safe_ his mind supplies with every move of Greg’s hands. 

Mycroft briefly wonders what this would feel like without layers of clothes between them, and quickly tries to wipe away the thought as he feels the heat of a blush spread across his cheeks. 

Their silence gives Mycroft a few minutes to organise his thoughts. He wants to tell Greg the rest, he feels he needs to. It seems less daunting now, knowing how Greg has reacted so far, knowing that he’s being met with understanding and compassion, not pity. 

Mycroft regretfully moves back, out of the hug. He meets Greg’s eyes, the depth of care within them seems endless. 

“Thank you.” 

Greg’s smile is soft, “You don’t need to thank me, Myc. Hugging you is...like a break from everything.” He blushes slightly, staring down into his lap, “Never felt anything like it.” 

Mycroft reaches out, taking both Greg’s hands in his own. They both let out a gasp when their bare skin touches, this time it’s warmer than earlier, the pins and needles sensation more noticeable, taking them both by surprise. 

They watch each other, and Greg waits for Mycroft to speak. 

“May I tell you the rest?” 

Greg squeezes Mycroft’s hands reassuringly, but doesn’t let go. Electricity burns through his forearms and from the surprise on Greg’s face; he’s clearly feeling the same sensations. 

“Only whatever you’re comfortable with, alright?” 

Mycroft swallows, meeting Greg’s steady gaze. “I’m comfortable with _you._ ”

Greg doesn’t let go of Mycroft’s hands, which he’s silently grateful for. 

“When I ended it, he spat the usual vitriol. But he left.” Mycroft grits his teeth. “I stayed with Anthea for the two days, and security changed all the locks and access codes once his time was up.” 

Greg nods in understanding, but there’s worry in his eyes and Mycroft knows that Greg’s aware that it could not have ended so easily. 

“Sherlock practically disappeared. I was beside myself, of course. I had an unshakable feeling that worse was to come. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat. I could barely function.” Mycroft frowns, his hands shaking slightly in Greg’s own. Greg begins to stroke Mycroft’s hands with his thumbs. Like earlier, comfort and warmth wash over Mycroft in waves. 

“Three days later, I received a text from Sherlock’s number with an address. Suspicious, I rang his number, Henry answered.” Mycroft closes his eyes, seeing the scene in his mind in perfect detail. Greg squeezes Mycroft’s hands lightly. It’s grounding, and he opens his eyes again.

The warmth of safety rushes over him when he meets Greg’s kind eyes. 

“Stay with me, darlin’.” Greg murmurs, understanding clear across his face. 

Mycroft nods once in thanks before taking a deep breath and continuing. “He held out the phone to Sherlock.” Mycroft whispers. “He’d stabbed Sherlock in the stomach. I was to come to that address unaccompanied if I wanted to save him.” Mycroft sighs “He followed the call with a picture message, proof that he was not lying.” Mycroft glances to Greg, who stares back evenly. “Anthea was not with me at the time, she was in a meeting. While I did alert her, I went ahead alone, much to her protests, but I couldn’t let Sherlock die.” 

“Of course.” Greg says softly in understanding. “You looked after him most of his life.” 

“Truthfully, I didn’t care about my own safety, only Sherlock’s.” 

Greg nods in understanding, and Mycroft’s relieved that there’s still no pity in Greg’s eyes. He doesn’t quite know how he would cope with that. 

“I was part of a club called the Diogenes. I had a private office there where I would sometimes base myself. Henry had Sherlock in that office. It was early morning and none of the attendants had arrived yet. I’ve no idea how they managed to enter the property. CCTV footage had been short-circuited.” 

Greg squeezes his hand again in reassurance for which Mycroft is endlessly grateful for. 

“When I opened the door to my office, the first thing I saw was Sherlock’s blood on the rug, then Sherlock’s body on the floor. Henry was waiting, of course, but he had a black eye, and a cut across his cheek. He was holding himself in a way I recognised; Sherlock had clearly managed to break a rib or two in their obvious scuffle. He was in pain and slow, but so was I, my own ribs were still nowhere near healed. He shot me in the stomach and I dropped to Sherlock’s side, he was barely conscious. I could feel his blood soak through my trousers.” Mycroft can feel his hands shake in Greg’s own, the warmth and safety of Greg’s touch is the only thing that keeps him going. “My own pain was immeasurable. I regretted not waiting for back-up. Anthea had called for reinforcement, but there was no sign of anyone.” 

Greg watches him, thumbs stroking his hands still. 

“The last thing he said to me was ‘Myc, look.’ When I turned, Henry was behind me with a knife, still bloody from Sherlock.” Mycroft feels his eyes sting, but tears don’t fall. “He grabbed me and put a knife to my throat and made me watch as the life slowly left Sherlock’s body. I was in no state to fight back. All I remember was me screaming for Sherlock, it was all silenced by a gunshot.” 

Greg frowns, but understanding crosses his face. “Backup?” 

“Anthea shot Henry. The paramedics were too late for Sherlock, they couldn’t resuscitate him. I had lost consciousness. I only vaguely remember hearing Anthea’s voice.” 

“Anthea saved your life.” It’s not a question.

“She did.” Mycroft murmurs, “And she’s stayed by my side since.” 

Greg’s silent for a few seconds, clearly letting the facts sink in. “Henry died?” 

Mycroft can only nod. Anthea had always been a superb marksman.

“Everything was dealt with in secret?” 

“Utmost secret. I was ashamed.” 

Greg squeezes his hands, “And the nightmares?” 

“Less frequent nowadays. I apologise that it happened on your first night here.” 

Greg shakes his head, “Don’t apologise for things you can’t control.” He pauses, then looks to Mycroft again. “I’m glad I was here to wake you up. That I was here for you.”

“After all the pain I’ve caused you?” Mycroft whispers, the guilt over the fact that their shared dreams have been making Greg ill sits heavy in his chest. 

_Pathetic_ the familiar voice echoes in his head.

Greg lets go of Mycroft’s hands, so that he can caress Mycroft’s cheeks again. “Darlin’, it’s not your fault, you’re not the one making me exhausted, alright? Don’t blame yourself for this too, alright?” 

Mycroft looks at him doubtfully. He’s been holding that guilt since he found out Greg’s dreams were the cause of his worsening health, coupled with the permanent guilt over Sherlock. Something he knows he will carry with him until his last breath. 

Greg seems to read him effortlessly, “C’mere, lie down.” 

Mycroft raises a brow as Greg moves to the far side of the sofa and pats his thighs. 

“Wanna try something, trust me?” 

_Of course I trust you, you magnificent man._

Mycroft nods, shifting so he lies down, his head rested on Greg’s thighs. 

Greg hums in approval, moving the quilt that had been around them over Mycroft’s body. “Close your eyes, darlin’.” Greg whispers. 

Mycroft does as he’s told, and shivers when Greg buries his fingers in his hair. Small shocks of warmth criss cross across his scalp as Greg begins to massage his scalp. 

“None of this was ever your fault, Mycroft.” Greg’s voice is heartbreakingly gentle, and Mycroft places a hand on Greg’s knee. “Your relationship with Henry and its consequences were not your fault. Henry was abusive and he took advantage of all the trust you placed in him, even though he was aware that you trusting him was rare. You looked after your brother as best you could, Sherlock was an adult too, Mycroft. He had his own choices to make. You see that, yeah?” 

Mycroft’s eyes still closed, sting slightly. He feels a tear trickle down his cheek and into Greg’s pyjama bottoms. He merely nods once, the slightest movement but he knows Greg feels it. 

“Darlin’.” Greg whispers, “It’s going to be alright.” One hand still buried in Mycroft’s hair, the other gently caresses his cheek. 

Mycroft inhales sharply at the shock of warmth that spreads out from where their skin touches. 

“Y’know, I’m grateful for the dreams. They led me to you, eventually. Yeah?” 

Mycroft doesn’t move, he feels the tension in his body soften. The warmth from Greg’s hands slowly spreads throughout his body, and he feels peaceful, sleepy. 

“We’ll sort out my health together, just like we’re meant to. Yeah? Even after one night in your home, I had no dreams like your theory. We’ll get through this. Together.” 

Mycroft hums in agreement, already floating comfortably between asleep and awake. 

_Together._

* * *

Greg continues to run his fingers through Mycroft’s hair as he hears the other man’s breathing slow and even out. 

The now increasingly familiar tingle of the warmth and electricity between them is noticeable in the tips of his fingers as he threads his fingers through the soft, ginger strands. 

It’s comforting for Greg too, coupled with the fact that Mycroft trusts him enough to have him here, it means all the more now.

He listens to Mycroft’s breathing deepen, amusement filling him as he realises the man doesn’t snore.

_Of course not._

Mycroft’s body is relaxed against Greg’s as he sleeps, and Greg can’t help but watch him in admiration. He’s seen Mycroft smile, briefly, but any stress that had been evident in his face is gone now. He looks at peace, and Greg longs to protect him. To keep him safe.

A light sleeper, Greg had woken to shouts, there was a moment of panic when he didn’t recognise his surroundings after coming out of a dreamless sleep. 

Disorientated, he recognised Mycroft’s voice, and immediately Greg was crossing the hallway into Mycroft’s room. The other man was calling for someone called Sherlock and he was clearly in distress. Greg sat on the edge of the bed, right in Mycroft’s eye-line when he woke and called him softly from sleep. 

All he had wanted to do was hold Mycroft safe in his arms.

Greg glances at the clock atop the mantelpiece and sees it’s gone seven. He can hear cars in the distance, the steady hum of London coming to life. 

But he’s content here, Mycroft asleep, head on his thighs. 

His fingers still brush against Mycroft’s scalp, feeling the warmth and comfort of the touch. 

Silently, Greg marvels at the fact that Mycroft has chosen to trust him, and is pretty certain no one else has that honour apart from Anthea. 

He did mention a chef in the café, but trusting someone as an employee is nothing to the extent of trusting another person in relation to your personal life and safety. 

And in his and Mycroft’s situation, it’s on a deeply personal level; unlike anything either of them have experienced so far in their lives. 

Yes, Greg had been married, had trusted, and had that trust broken too many times to count. 

But Mycroft had trusted and lost a sibling, and almost his life, not to mention both the physical and emotional turmoil he had endured. 

Greg watches Mycroft, chest filling with warmth and admiration. 

_You’re safe with me, darlin’. Promise._

Greg wakes, startled when he hears a key in the door. He glances around him, Mycroft still asleep on his lap, his hand still resting in Mycroft’s hair. 

He catches a quick glance at the clock and sees it’s after eight. There’s a low hum of people downstairs and he’s vaguely aware that the café must be open. 

He looks to the source of the noise just in time to see Anthea come through the door to the flat. 

Worry quickly fades from her face to unconcealed surprise when she sees Mycroft asleep on Greg, wrapped up in a quilt. 

Anthea blushes, an apologetic smile on her face. “Mycroft wasn’t down to open up, so I just-“ 

Greg nods in understanding, “He told me about Henry and Sherlock.” He whispers.

Again, surprise crosses her face before she can control her expression. 

She glances at her watch and frowns, turning towards the small kitchen. “Would you like anything to drink? You might be there for a while. Haven’t seen him look this peaceful in ages.” 

“Tea would be fine.” He glances down at Mycroft, unable to hide a private smile. He would hold out on tasting any coffee here until it was Mycroft exclusively that was offering. 

Anthea flicks the switch on the kettle, and routes silently in a press. She nods at Greg as she passes by with a can of what looks like cat food. 

Greg frowns, _Mycroft has a cat?_

He hears Anthea open what must be the door at the end of the hallway that Mycroft hadn’t shown him and then hears murmured talking, not one meow. 

Greg’s stares at Anthea in confusion when she returns. 

“Her Highness requires to be fed by half eight daily, if not we may be facing war.” That’s the only explanation that Greg receives before she disappears back to the kitchen and Greg can hear her prepare his tea. 

Anthea returns to his side with a coaster and a mug, which she places on the arm of the sofa, easily within Greg’s reach so that he doesn’t have to move or wake Mycroft. “Your tea.” 

“Thanks, Anthea.” He gives her a kind smile. “Cat?”

She nods in amusement, “You might meet her later. She mainly sticks to Mycroft’s office; he doesn’t use it much anymore, so it’s her kingdom. She was probably asleep when you both got back last night. I fed her before I left the café.” 

“Had no idea he’d be a cat person.” Greg whispers truthfully. 

Anthea shrugs, “She’s company, and that’s what mattered most when he took her in.” 

Greg raises an eyebrow, she just shakes her head. “He’ll explain himself. I’ve got to get back to the café. See you both later.” And with a nod, she leaves. 

Greg sips at his tea as he listens to the unfamiliar sounds around them both. His hand has resumed its even stroking of Mycroft’s hair and his tea is almost gone by the time that Mycroft shifts in his sleep. 

He feels Mycroft’s body tense, eyes still closed and he slowly strokes Mycroft’s scalp. “S’okay.” He breathes, “Just me, Greg.” He sees Mycroft blink a few times, tension easing once he recognises the familiar surroundings of his home. 

“Gregory?” Greg feels the hairs rise on his body at the sound of his name in Mycroft’s sleep-rough voice. 

He can only hum in response, knowing that he must be staring at Mycroft with the warmest of smiles. He can feel it on his lips as Mycroft doesn’t make any effort to move away from Greg’s lap, so Greg takes the opportunity to continue to run his fingers through Mycroft’s hair. 

If anything, Mycroft relaxes further. 

“Sleep well, darlin’?” 

The hint of a smile on Mycroft’s face, makes Greg’s heart race. “Rather superbly.”

_You’re gorgeous._

The thought feels so loud in his mind he wouldn’t be surprised if Mycroft can hear it. 

“M’glad.” 

“Thank you.” Mycroft murmurs shyly, rolling onto his back and Greg forgets how to breathe for a few seconds as both Mycroft’s blue-grey eyes stare up at him. 

Hand now free from Mycroft’s hair, he traces Mycroft’s jawline, feels the hint of stubble. He can’t help the smile that breaks across his face as Mycroft leans into his touch. 

_You’d be so easy to fall for, darlin’._

“Nothing to thank me for.” Greg whispers, willingly getting lost in Mycroft’s eyes. 

Mycroft seems as though he’s getting ready to protest when Greg shakes his head. “I think your theory was correct.” He says matter-of-factly. “Didn’t have any dreams last night, but can’t be sure from just one night.” 

Mycroft still stares up at him, cheeks pink. “I apologise for-“

“Hey,” Greg whispers, “We talked about this. I’m happy I was here for you. Alright?” 

Mycroft hesitates and when he opens his mouth Greg shakes his head, “Don’t thank me again.” 

The glint of surprise that crosses Mycroft’s face quickly turns into a chuckle. Mycroft covers his face with his hands and Greg feels a wave of fondness wash over him at the sight. 

Mycroft shifts and Greg can’t help the small exclamation of disappointment when Mycroft sits up. Mycroft looks back at him, amusement crossing his face, as though he’s surprised that Greg enjoyed sitting with Mycroft’s head in his lap. 

Which Greg did, very much so. 

“What time is it?” Mycroft asks, looking towards the clock and frowning. 

“Anthea was here and fed your...cat?” 

A small blush covers Mycroft’s cheeks and he shakes his head. “Usually I text Anthea around six to let her know whether I’ll start preparing for opening or not.”

Greg nods, “She looked worried when she came in.” 

“I apologise. You understand that it was nothing against you-“

“Hey.” Greg places his hand on Mycroft’s arm, and Mycroft looks to him ashamed. “I understand completely, right?” Greg smiles, squeezes Mycroft’s arm relieved when he sees some of the tension leave Mycroft’s body. 

“She doesn’t know me, besides what Sally has told her. She cares about you deeply and naturally would be worried. Especially if she didn’t receive a regular message from you. Yeah?” 

Mycroft nods, “There may have been a few background checks and a folder prepared about you once the dreams started and I recognised you.” He admits, embarrassed. 

Greg chuckles, “To be honest, I’m not that surprised.” 

Mycroft just stares at him in astonishment. “You...don’t mind?” 

Greg shakes his head, “Got nothing to hide, and if it means I’m able to spend time with you, it’s harmless really.” 

“You amaze me.” Mycroft whispers, and Greg feels the heat of his gaze as Mycroft looks to him, eyes trailing every inch of his face, searching and clearly finding what he’s looking for; honesty. 

_Always._

“Hope I continue to do so.” Greg murmurs, moving to intertwine their fingers, Mycroft smiles back at Greg when their skin touches and they feel the familiar shock of warmth. 

“I have a feeling you will.” Mycroft confesses. 

Their moment is interrupted by the tip-tap of claws on the wooden floor. A small tabby cat slowly comes around the corner, and stares at both of them expectantly. 

“Ah.” Mycroft says softly, getting off the sofa to approach her. “It’s time you met Tabitha.” 

The cat meows softly, looking up at Mycroft, fondness clear in her eyes as she circles his legs, brushing her head against his pyjama bottoms. 

Mycroft bends down to pick her up, kissing the top of her head before carrying her over to the sofa. She stays in Mycroft’s arms, but stares at Greg with wide-eyed curiosity.

Greg stares at the scene in front of him, Mycroft in his pyjamas, cradling a cat in his arms. 

_Christ, he’s adorable._

“You called her Tabitha because she’s a tabby?” Greg asks, amusement clear in his voice. 

Mycroft blushes, “Not very original, I know.” 

Greg grins across at him, he holds out his hand to the cat and lets her sniff his fingers before petting her, which she allows. “It’s cute.” 

The blush deepens, “It wasn’t my intention to be ‘cute’.” 

_You’re wonderful._

A wave of fondness crashes over Greg, and he can’t help staring at Mycroft in admiration. “Bit late.” He teases, squeezing Mycroft’s shoulder and he’s sure Mycroft’s returning smile could give him twenty more years of life. 

“How long have you had her?” Greg asks, reaching out to pet her again. She meows loudly at him and moves in Mycroft’s arms, crossing the space between them and sitting on Greg’s knees, staring up at him as though waiting for something. 

“She’ll allow you to pet her now.” Mycroft murmurs, fond smile on his face as he watches them both. 

Greg reaches out and runs his hand down her spine, she meows softly, seemingly content. 

“I found her three years ago.” Mycroft says quietly, watching Tabitha as she gets used to Greg. “She was a kitten, she was out by the bins. I fed her and kept an eye out, but no mother cat arrived. I took her to the vet and then took her in.” 

Tabitha meows loudly at Greg when he pauses petting her. “You rescued her.” 

Mycroft nods slowly, “She mainly keeps to herself, but having her as company here has been invaluable.” 

After another quieter meow, she gets tired of Greg’s preoccupation with Mycroft and swiftly returns to Mycroft’s lap, he immediately runs his hands through her fur, and she purrs contentedly. 

Greg watches Mycroft smile down at Tabitha and the look of admiration she gives Mycroft makes Greg melt. 

_I’m falling for you, darlin’._

Greg shifts so he’s brushing up against Mycroft’s side, Mycroft looks at him with a raised brow. 

“I hope I can be company for you too.” Greg murmurs, blushing despite himself. 

Mycroft’s lip twitches, a completely different smile directed at Greg. Shy, but warm. 

“You already are, Gregory.”

They sit in a comfortable silence with Tabitha enjoying their attention. Greg leans into Mycroft and Mycroft’s resulting smile takes Greg’s breath away. 

“Would you like breakfast?” Mycroft asks.

“Sure.” Greg murmurs, “Coffee?” 

Mycroft’s laughter is music to Greg’s ears. “You’ll finally get that coffee after all.” 

“You did promise.” Greg teases. 

Mycroft lets Tabitha off his knee and she curls up on the sofa. “Toast, or would you like something from downstairs?” 

Greg hasn’t had anything resembling a breakfast in weeks. Toast would be perfect, plus it would mean spending more time alone with Mycroft in their pyjamas. 

“Toast would be fine, ta.” Greg follows Mycroft into the kitchen and watches as Mycroft takes out the loaf of homemade bread from last night. 

“It does toast properly in the toaster.” He murmurs, amused at the confusion on Greg’s face. 

“And coffee?” Greg asks, giving Mycroft what used to be his cheeky grin. 

_Must be years since I’ve smiled like this._

Mycroft chuckles then rolls his eyes, clearly enjoying himself, Greg’s heart races at the lightheartedness of the situation. 

“Forgive me, I’ve deprived you of your lifeblood for far too long.” 

Greg’s immediately taken aback by the urge to kiss Mycroft, and he feels the heat of his blush spread across his face. Mycroft doesn’t seem to notice, thankfully, as he’s pouring coffee beans into a grinder. 

“I’ll forgive you once I’ve had this coffee.” Greg tries to joke, the thought of kissing the other man still at the forefront of his mind. 

The bread pops from the toaster, startling Greg for a brief second, he can hear the amusement in Mycroft’s voice as he asks Greg to plate the bread and fetch the jam and butter. 

_Wish I could hold you._

Greg goes to set the small table for them both and then returns to Mycroft’s side to watch as he expertly uses the coffee machine for their coffees. 

The smell of the freshly brewed coffee brings Greg back to the present; it’s always been one of his favourite aromas. This is nothing on instant, and most definitely nothing like the poison that’s on-tap at the Yard. 

Mycroft glances at him, a knowing look in his eyes, a fond smile. “Here you go.” He hands Greg an americano, the top covered in a rich crema. It looks like the best coffee he’s ever seen. 

“This looks fantastic, Mycroft.” Greg brings his mug to the table and waits for Mycroft to come sit down. He watches intently as Mycroft steams the milk for what he’s making himself and when he returns to the table Greg sees it’s a latte. 

Mycroft looks at him expectantly, a hint of amusement on his face. Greg picks up the mug, bringing it to his lips. He closes his eyes and inhales, he sighs contentedly before taking a sip. 

He blushes once he hears the moan he involuntarily lets out as he tastes the coffee. It’s like nothing he’s ever tasted before. Smoky and sharp.

Mycroft’s biting his lip when Greg opens his eyes, clearly pleased. 

“Fucking fantastic, Myc. I’ll never look at coffee the same again.” 

“I’m glad. I’m guessing you would be willing to try out different coffees with this blend?” 

“As long as you make it, definitely.” Greg says sincerely, taking another sip.

“Later on, we can still travel to your apartment and gather some of your belongings.” Mycroft murmurs as he butters his toast. 

Greg nods, the thought of seeing his flat again is daunting. His existence there for the last few months has been utter misery and exhaustion. 

When he looks up from his toast, Mycroft’s watching him carefully, head tilted. 

“We’ll only be there for as long as you need.” He says softly, understanding. He places his hand over Greg’s on the table. They both gasp, the familiar electricity flowing across their skin. 

It’s not as intense as earlier, but it’s still enough to take their breath away. 

“Do you think everyone feels like this touching their soulmate?” Greg whispers, as he turns his hand so they can intertwine their fingers; an increasingly familiar gesture between them both.

_Definitely would remember reading about it, wouldn’t I?_

“I’ve no idea.” Mycroft murmurs, squeezing Greg’s hand, “We should ask Sally and Anthea, perhaps? I’m also awaiting a response from the professor leading the study.” 

Greg nods, glancing at their hands. “Do you think it’ll happen every time we touch?” 

Mycroft’s silent for a minute, staring intently at their hands. When he looks back to Greg, his eyes are open and honest. “I truly hope so, Gregory.” 


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's POV. Mycroft & Greg travel to Greg's flat to collect some of his belongings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, an update!   
> I just want to say a huge thank you to anyone has commented on past chapters, it's an incredible help to know I'm not just posting to the void, especially when I have my doubts about this one :') 
> 
> No warnings in this chapter, but Greg's ex's infidelity is mentioned. 
> 
> Enjoy! <3

Breakfast is finished in comfortable silence. Their fingers brush against each other often, completely intentional by the both of them. 

Small, secretive smiles each time the spark between them flares through their fingers. 

_This could become an addiction,_ Greg thinks idly to himself, watching Mycroft empty his mug, _Constant touching, constant electricity, sparks flying for eternity._

Greg intends to ask Sally whether her and Anthea feel the electricity when they touch, he knows Mycroft is going to ask Anthea at some point. 

Trying to gather their own data, to figure their connection out together. 

But, Greg wonders, if every soulmate felt like this when they touched, surely they couldn’t bare to be apart for any length of time? 

It _is_ addictive; Greg knows he’s never going to touch anyone else this way; hopes he never has to. 

_Just Mycroft,_ his brain supplies, _only Mycroft._

Greg stays by Mycroft’s side as they wash their plates, instead of using the dishwasher. Mycroft leans into Greg’s side. When Greg looks to Mycroft, he’s greeted with a gloriously shy smile. 

Greg hopes he’s reading Mycroft correctly, slowly wrapping an arm around Mycroft’s waist as he rests his head on Mycroft’s shoulder. 

Mycroft briefly tenses, and Greg is just about to pull away full of apologies, but Mycroft sighs contentedly and he feels the tension disappear from Mycroft’s shoulders as he relaxes. 

Greg hums in contentment, closing his eyes and breathing in the other man. 

Mycroft smells like comfort and safety, of a home that Greg thought he’d never find. 

_I could get used to this, darlin’._

“I feel lighter.” Mycroft murmurs, just loud enough for Greg to hear. 

“M’glad, darlin’.” 

“How...” Mycroft’s voice trails off, instead leading Greg into a hug. Mycroft’s warmth envelops him. 

“How what?” Greg asks, closing his eyes as he holds Mycroft close. 

Mycroft’s head is resting on his shoulder, but his hands cling to the back of Greg’s pyjamas as though he’s afraid that Greg will pull away at any moment. 

_Not a chance, love._

“You’re so understanding.” Mycroft’s voice is small, but Greg hugs him tighter. 

“Always for you.” 

They continue holding each other close, both finding comfort in the touch, and a reluctance in letting go. 

Neither of them dare to push it further. 

They’re interrupted by what Greg would class as a curious meow. The even tapping of claws against wood. 

“You’ve been fed.” Mycroft says softly, reluctantly letting go of Greg. 

Mycroft leans down to pick up Tabitha, cradling her in his arms like a baby, Greg can’t help but grin at the sight of the two of them. 

“Something tells me you spoil her.” Greg watches as Tabitha curls into Mycroft’s chest, clearly quite content in his arms. 

Well, it _is_ comfortable in Mycroft’s arms. 

Mycroft hums quietly, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Perhaps a little.” 

Greg leans against the countertop. “So, if I were to go into your ‘office’” He makes quote marks with his fingers, and an amused smile blooms on Mycroft’s face, “Should I be surprised to discover Tabitha has taken over?” 

Greg could swoon at the sight of the blush developing on Mycroft’s cheeks.

_Adorable._

“Well, I am going to shower. How about you take Tabitha to the office and tell me how surprised you are when I return?”

“Sounds like a plan.” Greg holds out his arms and Mycroft passes Tabitha to him easily. Her wide eyes stare up at Greg, before she curls into his chest, seemingly as content in his arms as she was in Mycroft’s. 

Mycroft stares at them both, blinking as though in disbelief. When he meets Greg’s patient eyes, he smiles, fondness clear in his face. “I’ll go shower.” He murmurs. 

_I’ll always be here for you, darlin’, if you’ll let me._

Greg carries Tabitha down the short hallway and takes his first step into Mycroft’s office. 

He’s largely unsurprised once he sees the ornate desk in the that faces the window, there are folders on it, and then a filing cabinet that Greg’s sure holds many state secrets. But other than that, the room has been completely repurposed for Tabitha. That much is clear from only the briefest glance. 

Tabitha meows in Greg’s arms and he looks down at her. “You want to get down?” He asks, temporarily forgetting that he’s talking to a cat. 

But knowing that if ever a cat could talk, it would most likely be one owned by Mycroft. 

She meows again and Greg takes that as an agreement and he lets her down onto the floor. She approaches her cat tower and Greg watches as she climbs. 

The litter box is a literal robot and Greg tries not to think on that too much. 

_This cat is spoiled._

He sits on the floor by the tower and watches Tabitha. 

There’s a bed in the corner that looks fluffy and welcoming. There’s a crumpled blanket beside it, Greg tilts his head trying to see the pattern, only to realise it’s covered in little hearts. 

There are toys on the floor, scattered around and Greg is amused by the contraption attached to the wall. A series of ledges and little bridges between them, clearly another form of cat tower, but until now, he’d never seen anything like it. 

“You’re one lucky lady, aren’t you Tabs?” 

There’s a meow in reply, which amuses Greg to no end, and then she appears in front of him, head butting his knee. He takes it as a request to pet her and complies without argument. 

He remembers what Mycroft said about going to Greg’s apartment to pick up clothes and other necessities and he feels his stomach churn at the thought of going back...he’s never called it _‘home’_ as such, it’s just a place he exists in. And the past few months, he hasn’t even been doing that. 

He thinks about Mycroft stepping inside, seeing the lacklustre walls that Greg has been staring aimlessly at for years. He thinks about how Mycroft’s incredibly observant, how he’ll probably see Greg’s hopelessness the minute he walks through the door. 

But he can’t avoid going back, after all he does need clothes. The ones he’d arrived here with desperately need a wash, and even though he wouldn’t mind living in Mycroft’s pyjamas for the foreseeable future, it’s not practical. 

Greg hears the shower cut out in the next room and he looks back at Tabitha in the strange silence. She just stares back at him, purring softly as his fingers comb through her fur. 

_It’s like you understand._ Greg thinks idly, as she continues to purr. 

He’s been sent enough animal videos from colleagues over the year to know some animals can be incredibly intuitive. 

_She’d be aware, living with Mycroft._

Greg sighs, he’s been so lonely for such a long time, to the point of an ache of what feels like a hole in his chest. The heaviness of just having to even breathe. 

The picture of blue-grey eyes the only thing to get him through the day, then feeling even more alone as he had no idea where this man was. 

Since last night, Greg’s life has been turned on its head. 

Not only has he been put on forced leave, but he’s grown so much closer to Mycroft than he could have imagined in such a short time. 

_Mycroft showed me his past, maybe it’s time I show him mine._

_After all, I want him to be my future._

* * *

Greg emerges from what has become his room in his own clothes, frowning to himself. 

Anxiety about the task ahead thrums through his veins. His heart beats faster in his chest.

The vague odour of sweat, the various coffee stains on his shirt make him look unkempt. 

Did he seriously go to a meeting with the Deputy Commissioner looking like this? 

_It’s a wonder I still have a job._

“Uh-“ Greg tries, awkwardly, “Can I borrow some of your clothes? These are a bit...rank, to be honest.” 

Mycroft glances up from a newspaper he’d been reading on the coffee table and Greg lets out an audible hum of delight when he sees the glasses perched on Mycroft’s nose. A brilliant distraction for the sorry state he’s in. 

Mycroft rolls his eyes, amusement clear on his face, “I only wear them for reading.” 

“They look good on you.” Greg confesses, a surge of happiness surges through his chest at the sight of Mycroft blushing, clearly surprised. 

It doesn’t quite block out the anxiety that spreads through him, the happiness quickly disappearing when Mycroft takes off his glasses and assesses Greg’s worse-for-wear outfit. 

“I apologise, Gregory. I should have thought to run your clothes through the washing machine last night.” Standing up, he places a hand on Greg’s forearm. 

Greg immediately misses the familiar spark that comes from bare-skin contact; his shirt sleeves denying him of that chance. 

He’s unaware that he must be frowning until Mycroft’s face changes, minutely. Understanding crossing his features. 

He trails his hand down Greg’s arm deliberately, easily finding his hand and intertwines their fingers, eyes never leaving Greg’s for even a second. 

Greg shivers in satisfaction when he feels it; the warmth, the tingling electricity dancing across his skin where Mycroft touches. 

_Safe._

Mycroft squeezes Greg’s hand, grey eyes piercing. “Come with me, we’ll try find you something.” 

_I don’t know how I’ll live without this, without you._

The thought takes Greg completely off-guard, makes him breathless. 

Mycroft has already turned to lead Greg towards his bedroom, and Greg’s thankful for small mercies; that he didn’t accidentally say it out loud. 

Entering Mycroft’s bedroom for the second time since he’s been here feels momentous. This time it is because Mycroft has invited him in, not because of a nightmare. 

Greg notes the neatly made bed, and tries to prevent his thoughts completely derailing into what they could do in that bed. Of bare skin and enough electricity to power London. 

He’s grateful for the distraction that Mycroft’s wardrobe presents. It’s built in, clearly a feature introduced by Mycroft. It spans the wall. 

Greg whistles in surprise as Mycroft slides open one of the doors. 

Everything is neatly folded and colour-coded and Greg feels another wave of fondness overcome him for Mycroft. 

“My suits are located on that side of the wardrobe.” Mycroft gestures at the unopened door. “Here are my more casual offerings, though I fear we will need to cuff the trousers for you...” 

Greg immediately warms once he hears the teasing in Mycroft’s voice. “Oi! You’re only a few inches taller than me.” 

Mycroft hums in agreement, then glances at him, eyes sparkling with amusement. “The pyjama bottoms were too long, why wouldn’t my other clothes be?” 

Greg bumps against his shoulder, feeling the heat of the blush that’s slowly creeping up his face. “Hush you. What do you suggest to make me look less...this?” He looks down at his own sorry excuse for an outfit. 

Mycroft’s expression softens, “I think a dark emerald would suit you quite wonderfully.” He picks out a cashmere jumper, a deep green that screams comfort. Mycroft holds the jumper out towards Greg and Greg takes it, surprised that it’s softer than he even imagined it to be. 

“Jeans?” Mycroft asks, brow raised. 

Greg can’t help the laugh that erupts from him. “You own jeans?” 

Mycroft bites his lip, clearly an attempt to hold back his own laughter. “Two pairs.” 

“Have you ever worn either?” 

“Not even once.” Mycroft replies, clearly proud of himself. 

_You’re a wonder._

Greg shakes his head, amusement clear on his face, “Right, just toss me the first pair to your hand and I’ll try them on.”

Back in his own room, Greg looks at himself in the mirror. Anything is an improvement on what he had been wearing. The jumper feels like a hug, it’s warm and so soft against his skin. 

The jeans are a bit tight on him, a little on the long side. He’s thankful that he can easily roll up the hem of the jeans, hopes it isn’t that noticeable. The clothes smell of fresh laundry, and Greg only notices this because he misses Mycroft’s scent. 

He meets his own eyes in the mirror, trying to ignore the anxiety. “Get a grip.” He tells himself, but his mind’s eye only shows him the state of his flat, his pitiful existence. 

Once he’s ready, he returns to the living room and again, Mycroft looks up from the newspaper he had been perusing. His quiet hum of approval goes straight to the emptiness inside Greg, lessening the ache. He can’t help but to give Mycroft a hopeful smile. 

“Quite dashing, Gregory.” Mycroft murmurs, standing up. He looks Greg up and down, eyes lingering on the hem of the jeans, amusement blissfully clear on his face. 

_God, you’re gorgeous like this, darlin’._

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Alright. You were right about them being too long.” Greg’s voice is light and when the amusement makes Mycroft’s eyes shine as he attempts to hold back a laugh, Greg promises to try and make this a regular expression on Mycroft’s face. 

Mycroft’s chuckle is delightful. “I think you’ll pass.” He nods his head towards the jeans. “No one would be able to tell you’ve rolled them up.” 

“Except you.” 

“I’m merely observant.” And with that Mycroft _winks_ at him and Greg can feel the heat in his cheeks. He’s fairly sure that he’s never blushed like this. 

“Shall we go?” Mycroft asks softly. 

Dread begins to seep back into his body, Greg nods reluctantly. “Suppose it’s better to just get it over with.” 

As Mycroft passes by to lead them towards the door, he gently squeezes Greg’s shoulder. It’s precisely the comfort that Greg needs right now. 

There’s no one in the café’s kitchen as they pass through it, but there’s soup bubbling on the stove. Greg inhales the sweet smell, getting a hint of toast too. 

He finds he wouldn’t be averse to having lunch here. 

Out in the café, there’s a line of people waiting for their coffee, Anthea is busy and Mycroft introduces the man at her side as Damien, the chef that Greg has heard of but never seen. 

Damien waves at him, but quickly gets back to work steaming milk. Anthea smiles at them both, raising an inquisitive brow. 

“We’re going to collect some of Greg’s belongings from his flat, we’ll be back later.” Mycroft explains. 

Anthea nods, “Hopefully you’ll get a chance for coffee then.” She smiles at Greg and Greg’s almost tempted to ask her what it feels like when she touches Sally, but decides against it. Anthea is busy, plus he’d rather ask Sally instead. 

Greg follows Mycroft towards his car, stomach unsettled. 

Trying to remember what state he’d left his flat in, he’s afraid of what Mycroft will think. Will he decide that he isn’t worth it? Will he realise what everyone Greg’s ever been with has realised?

_Not enough. Not worth it._

Anna’s voice whispers through his mind. 

“Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice is soft, and there’s a light pressure on his forearm. 

Greg snaps out of his thoughts, out of the spiral he’s been quickly being sucked into. They’re in Mycroft’s car, and Greg can’t mask his confusion. He hardly remembers walking out from the café.

Mycroft’s watching him with worried eyes, and his palm rests on Greg’s forearm. 

Greg stares down at Mycroft’s hand on his arm, a voice inside his head asks how much longer Mycroft will want to do this. 

As though following Greg’s thoughts, Mycroft watches him with utmost kindness in his eyes. He slowly trails his hand down to Greg’s hand, covering the bare skin with his own. 

The resulting electricity is comforting beyond belief, and Greg _knows_ that Mycroft feels exactly the same. 

_I won’t be able to live without this, after this._

“Gregory, you appear to believe that I’m going to take one look at your home and run. That’s certainly not going to be the case, I assure you.” 

“That’s the thing…it’s never been my home.” Greg admits before he can stop himself, blushing in shame he looks away from Mycroft. 

Mycroft squeezing his hand, the resulting new wave of electricity gives Greg enough courage to meet Mycroft’s eyes again. 

“You’ve told me that I am not my past.” Mycroft says softly, “The same goes for you too, Gregory. You are who you are here and now.” 

Greg feels some of the tension in his body lessen as he lets out a breath that he hadn’t been aware that he was holding. “How did I ever find you?” He whispers, the disbelief evident in his voice. 

A slight smile tugs at Mycroft’s lips, “Because you were meant to.” He whispers, “Because we are soulmates.” 

There’s an urgency in Mycroft’s voice when he says the word ‘soulmate’ that wasn’tthere before; an urgency that tells Greg that Mycroft doesn’t doubt the phenomenon any longer, that he believes in it fully. That maybe he’s _happy_ that they’re each other’s. 

The sheer difference between the man who glared at him and walked away the day Greg had found him, and the Mycroft he was now staying with and learning about is enough to make Greg’s eyes sting with unshed tears. 

Mycroft watches him, thumb stroking across the back of Greg’s hand. “Shall we get this over with?” 

Greg squeezes Mycroft’s hand, knowing he’ll have to let go for Mycroft to drive. He nods, “Please.”

They spend the journey to Greg’s flat in a comfortable silence, the radio playing quietly between them. It’s a station without adverts that plays solely classical music. The radio was already set to it when Mycroft turned on the car, and Greg takes this information in happily; he could learn new things about Mycroft daily and never tire of it. 

Greg doesn’t tell Mycroft where he lives, because somehow Mycroft already has a clear idea. He briefly remembers Mycroft saying there had been background checks run on him, that a file with ‘Gregory Lestrade’ exists somewhere. 

Greg mainly stares out the window as London passes them by, driving by hundreds of other people living their own lives. 

It’s only when they get nearer Greg’s flat that he feels the anxiety double within him. 

The evidence of how utterly miserable he had been will be laid right out before both of them. 

Greg tries to distract himself, tries to mentally pick out anything he’ll need over the next month, so he can just go in and fetch them and spend as little time back there as possible. 

Greg is taken from his thoughts by the warmth and firmness of Mycroft’s hand on his thigh. 

“We’re here.” Mycroft’s voice is kind, and he watches Greg evenly. 

Greg places his hand atop Mycroft’s, closing his eyes at the initial current of electricity, breathing in the calmness that seems to accompany it. 

An almost automatic reaction now between them, Greg intertwines their fingers. 

They sit in silence in the car park for a few minutes, taking comfort in the warmth and certainty of each other until Greg feels that he’s ready. 

Greg squeezes Mycroft’s hand, “Let’s get this over with.” He murmurs, reluctantly letting go of the other man to unbuckle his seatbelt. 

“Remember, Gregory, I am with you every step of the way.” 

_Christ, I adore you._

Greg can only nod, a grateful smile on his lips as the realisation crashes over him. Moving to get out of the car as a way to pretend he hasn’t just made himself breathless, knowing that even attempting to talk right now would betray him.

Much to Greg’s surprise, Mycroft comes to his side and takes his hand in his, and the comfort of the familiarity and warmth of Mycroft helps Greg’s heart slow to a healthier rhythm. 

They hold hands as they walk into Greg’s building, waiting for the elevator to arrive, Greg looks to Mycroft searchingly. 

Mycroft seems to sense Greg’s attention and turns his head, raising an eyebrow, his eyes focus on Greg’s and before Greg can open his mouth, the elevator dings and the doors open. 

They step in in silence, and Greg presses the button for the fifth floor. 

“Thank you.” Greg murmurs in the near silence. 

Mycroft squeezes his hand. “Anything, Gregory.” 

Greg can’t help but smile despite himself. He stares down at their feet, the dirty lift floor to hide the tears that threaten to fall. 

He’s unused to this. To being openly cared for. To have someone by his side. Someone honest.

It’s true that Sally is his best friend, of course. But there are some comforts that friends cannot provide, especially when both of them are often rushed off their feet. 

_This_ is different. 

He glances up, blinking as the lift doors open, a steady beeping as a signal to get out. Mycroft’s the first to move and Greg follows easily, unsurprised when Mycroft leads him to his own apartment as if he’s been there many times before. 

_What would it be like if he had been here before?_ His mind asks idly as Greg’s hands shake as he tries to unlock the door. 

_What if we had been together before now?_

Greg sighs in relief once the key turns in the lock, his hands still shaking slightly. He can feel the light pressure of Mycroft’s hand against his lower back, supporting him as he takes the few dreaded steps into his apartment. 

Immediately his mind forgets about the big questions, and instead focuses on Greg’s sitting room. 

Mycroft closes the door behind them and moves to take off his coat, when he hangs it up, he holds out his hands for Greg’s; his face kind and not a hint of judgement even if the curtains are closed and they’re mostly left in darkness.

Greg bites back the apologies he wants to make, he knows Mycroft would not appreciate them. 

After all, he told Greg his secrets, it’s now time for Greg to reveal the hurt and loneliness he’s been barely existing with. 

Mycroft stays by the coat hanger and waits for Greg to make a move, clearly determined to allow Greg to do this at his own pace. 

Greg takes a deep breath, noting that the bins and fridge should probably be the first port of call after the curtains. He manages to make it across the room and opens the curtains, allowing the daylight in on his lacklustre living space. 

The walls are empty, as they always have been since he moved in five years ago. 

He’d always intended to put up a poster here or there but was always too busy. It’s something he’s always regretted, sometimes it would have been helpful to come into a flat that held some of his personality.

As it was, the only personality in the room was the overflowing bookcase near the sofa. There are little piles of books in front of the shelf, often his only distraction. 

He preferred reading to watching the TV, there had always been something more comforting about the act for Greg. He could read for as long as he wished, shows rapidly pull you back into the world after an hour with an unpleasant cliff hanger and no promises of Greg having time to watch the next episode.

No, books were his comfort and escape. 

“So, uh...” Greg says aimlessly, glancing at the empty takeaway box on the table, the empty mugs with remainders of coffee dried into their interiors.

Mycroft seems to understand his nervousness, “May I suggest a course of action?”

Greg only nods, suddenly upset that there’s the length of the room between them. 

Mycroft takes a step further into the room. “How would you feel if I took care of cleaning away food and anything in your fridge that may expire during the next month? That way you could focus on packing.” 

Greg just watches Mycroft in amazement. “You’re a genius.” He whispers. 

Mycroft waves his hand through the air dismissively, but Greg is delighted to see the developing blush in his cheeks.

“And you don’t mind cleaning?” Greg asks, a hint of nervousness running through him. There’s probably milk in that fridge that’s been gone off for weeks; it’s not like he’d been using it. “I mean, there might be some developing eco-system in there.” He nods towards the fridge, running his hand through his hair in frustration at himself. 

“I don’t mind in the least.” Mycroft says softly, approaching him.

Greg feels his heart skip, _how did I live without you?_

Mycroft takes Greg’s hand, watching him intently, it immediately has a calming effect. “You may not believe it, but I’ve found that cleaning can be therapeutic. I rather enjoy closing up at the café by myself.” 

“You’re truly a wonder, Myc.” Greg whispers. 

Greg is taken aback when Mycroft draws him into a warm, gentle hug. Finds his hands immediately go to grab onto Mycroft’s jumper. He buries his head in Mycroft’s shoulder, feels some of the anxiety calm at the feeling of being held. 

“And I find you more enchanting by the minute.” Mycroft confesses, breath warm on Greg’s ear. 

Greg can’t help his shiver, and feels distraught when Mycroft lets him go. Mycroft’s palm is warm on Greg’s cheek, the electricity between them warm and sizzling throughout Greg’s face. 

“Let’s get started, shall we?” Mycroft asks, eyes kind and searching. Greg can only nod, reluctantly stepping away from the other man in order to go find some decent clothes for the next month. 

Greg can hear Mycroft moving between the sitting room and kitchen, the click of his shoes on the kitchen tiles. He can hear the squeak that the fridge makes when it’s opened. 

He’s hesitant to walk into his own silent room.

But the sounds from the next room are comforting. He’s not alone. 

There’s something about that realisation that hits Greg squarely in the chest, that takes his breath away for a few seconds. 

He’s spent so long in this boring and dull flat. He’s never felt loneliness like he has in the past year, certainly never felt the hopelessness and longing that he had since the dreams began. 

The fact that he can hear someone in the next room, can hear _Mycroft_ in the next room is enough to help begin mending the aching hole that he’s carried in his chest for far too long. 

Greg makes his first move be that of pulling up the blinds, letting some light in on the situation. Then he strips his messy and rumpled bed, throwing the sheets and duvet cover into the corner, the start of what he expects will be a rather large laundry pile. 

He searches for his hold-all, opening it and turning towards his shambles of what should be an organised wardrobe. He makes no effort to touch his work trousers, the odd court suit. 

He doesn’t want to be reminded of work now; he knows he needs to somehow get his life back in order, to start functioning like a human being again. 

He takes out a few shirts, just in case they decide to go somewhere fancy. He places them on his bed, biting his lip when he sees the wrinkles in them, he shakes his head his mind supplying that Mycroft obviously owns an iron. 

At the thought of the other man, Greg can hear the chime of cutlery as they’re dropped in the sink, the sound of water running. 

A surge of emotion hits him square in the chest at the sounds. His eyes sting with tears that he refuses to let fall. 

He’s been alone here for so, so long. The fact that he is no longer, feels foreign. 

When was the last time he had a friend over? It had to have been over a year. 

Yes, Sally had come in the day he first met Mycroft, but she didn’t stay. 

There had been a large part of Greg, still there of course, that was convinced he would never find anyone again. 

It was fair to say he’d been hurt in love, yet the hopeless romantic within him never quite dared to give up. That had been quickly buried by the agonising loneliness that had overtaken Greg. 

In the words of his ex-wife; why would anyone want to be with him? 

After all, he worked too much, was never there, and definitely not enough to keep a partner satisfied. 

She had claimed loneliness had brought her into other mens’ arms, easily shifting the blame onto Greg. 

It was effortless on her part, really. 

Anna had known Greg enough to know that he was a faithful husband, monogamous to a fault. 

She also knew that Greg loved her and as a result, would forgive her each time, and she took advantage of that, knowing that each time she was discovered, another piece of Greg’s sense of self was taken away. 

She had never been secretive about her affairs, it was as though she wanted to be caught; perhaps it was part of the thrill for her, Greg had no idea, he didn’t want to know.

Greg’s self-esteem had been struggling, and in many ways Anna took advantage of that. Greg soon began to believe that he was never going to be good enough, there enough. 

Of course before their marriage they had talked about aspirations, they both knew that Greg wanted to progress on the work ladder. Anna still agreed to marry despite knowing of the long work hours that Greg would have to put in. 

It went well for five years. Then the cracks began to show. 

Greg’s longer working hours, Anna’s affairs. 

Their friends at the time had looked on Greg with pity, one or two of them vocally questioning his idiocy of giving her another chance. So, Greg became more isolated. 

Not only cut off from his friends, but followed around by a sense of failure, knowing that the woman he loved was with other men, even on the nights he did everything in his power to get home by six and cook a dinner for them. 

The last straw had come when Greg had caught her and another man in their bed. 

“Gregory, where-“ Mycroft’s voice startles Greg from his memories, from the sickening feeling that had hung over him all those years that he’d stayed married despite knowing of her cheating. 

Greg turns around, wiping away tears that he hadn’t realised he’d been crying with the back of his hand. Mycroft’s standing at his bedroom door with two full black sacks, clearly finished with his cleaning and looking for where he could dispose of the rubbish. 

Mycroft takes one look at him, eyes wide and unsure before he drops the bin bags and crosses the short distance between them.

“Gregory?” He asks softly, brows creased with worry. He raises his hand, and with the gentlest brush of his fingers, he wipes away the tears on Greg’s cheeks, one by one. 

Greg can’t help but to shiver at Mycroft’s touch, stepping forward to close the few inches between them. 

Mycroft’s eyes are warm and searching. _Safe._

Greg pulls him into a hug, burying his head on Mycroft’s shoulder as he clings to Mycroft’s jumper. Inhaling the comforting scent that is gradually becoming his favourite smell. 

Mycroft tenses for barely a second before his arms engulf Greg’s body, holding him as close as possible. 

Greg startles at the shock of warm lips on his forehead, the sizzle of electricity more intense than their hands touching. 

He immediately wants _more._

“Would you like something to drink, some coffee perhaps?” Mycroft asks, voice rumbling in Greg’s ear, both of them still clinging onto each other. 

Greg nods but makes no effort to let go of Mycroft. If he did right now, he might just end up caving and kissing him, he craves the sensation and _feels_ the tension between them. 

Every time they get close enough to each other, he thinks for a brief second that maybe this will be the moment.

“Sorry for-“

Mycroft shushes him before he can say anymore. “There’s nothing to apologise for.” He murmurs, “But if you would like to talk about it, I’m here for you. I noticed you have atrocious instant coffee in the kitchen, shall we?” 

Greg can’t help but chuckle, hold tightening on Mycroft for a second before reluctantly stepping away. He raises an eyebrow, “Too lowly for the coffee master to drink?” 

Greg’s heart soars when he sees Mycroft’s lips twitch with amusement, another wave of warmth and admiration washing over him at the sight.

“Not at all.” Mycroft still fights the smile, “But I am here to promise that once you’re in my company, you will always be provided with _proper_ coffee.” 

_That might as well be a marriage proposal for the likes of me, darlin’._

“I’m honoured.” Greg can’t help but grin, his anguish of a few minutes ago still sits heavy within him, but Mycroft has lightened the load considerably. “Do you drink black coffee?” He asks out of curiosity, knowing that there’s no milk. “Because I might have herbal tea somewhere.”

Mycroft nods, “I often start the morning with an espresso or two. I’m not averse to black coffee, but given the choice I would usually use milk.” 

They walk side by side into the kitchen, Mycroft flicks the switch on the kettle and Greg notices the tin of coffee on the countertop along with two newly clean mugs. 

Mycroft notices, of course. “I thought perhaps a break would be needed.” 

Greg glances down at his feet, embarrassed. “You were right.” 

“May I say something?” Mycroft asks, it’s enough to get Greg to raise his head and he merely nods in silence. 

“To me it’s highly evident you have never been content here.” His voice is gentle, eyes attentive to Greg’s every expression. “As a result, I anticipated it would be difficult to return here. Perhaps taking a break for even half an hour would be beneficial?”

Greg nods, Mycroft is right; of course he is. “Yeah, I think so too.” 

The kettle finishes boiling, and Mycroft looks to Greg with a kind smile on his face. “Now, would you like to show me how you like this dishwater?” 

Greg’s surprised by his own bark of laughter. 

_Christ, you’re hilarious._

“C’mon, Myc. It can’t be that bad.” He goes to open the tin of coffee, “If you’re going to feel insulted by this, never drink anything in the Yard. Now, _that_ is poison. This-“ He gestures to the can as he loads a teaspoon with coffee. “-This is luxury compared to it. Plus,” He says dumping one spoon and going for a second spoon, ignoring Mycroft’s tutting. “This is the fancy already ground coffee, not the granulated stuff.” 

Mycroft comes to his side, leaning into him so that their arms touch. “I trust you.” Greg can hear the smile in his voice, but it feels like it stretches to far more subjects than instant coffee, and it helps him settle a little as he watches Mycroft carefully put a teaspoon of coffee in the mug before filling both their mugs with water from the kettle. “Sofa?” 

Greg can only nod, stomach churning as he knows this is where it’ll all come out. 

As seems to be their habit, they sit close enough that they can lean into each other, barely a centimetre of space between them. 

Greg still tries to get used to the presence of someone else in the flat with him. It’s even more noticeable now than earlier, he’s not just hearing noises as proof of Mycroft’s presence. He’s sitting beside him and he can smell Mycroft’s cologne, feel Mycroft’s heat against his body. 

“It just hit me.” Greg murmurs, hands cradling his mug. 

Mycroft mirrors him, but turns his head so that he can watch Greg. He hums inquisitively, but doesn’t say anything to stop the flow of Greg’s words. 

“When I heard you in the next room, I realised I wasn’t alone here. You’re the first person who’s been here with me in what’s probably more than a year. I’ve just been so lonely that it physically aches. I’ve been walking around with a hole in my chest for the last few years. Even before the divorce. I mean-“ Greg sighs, “I’ve only spent a day with you, and I don’t know how I’m going to go back to that loneliness after this. How I’ll even exist once this month with you is over.”

_I’ve finally said it._

Mycroft is silent for a few agonising seconds, Greg watches him blink slowly as though he’s trying to sort out something in his head before speaking. When he looks to Greg, there’s a mixture of sadness and confusion in his eyes and Greg feels a little like he’s just been punched. 

_You did this to him._

Mycroft meets his gaze steadily. “Gregory, when did I ever give you the impression that I was going to throw you out of my home after a month? That I’m going to leave you?” 

Greg is momentarily stumped. When Mycroft puts it like that, it sounds ridiculous, but so does taking somebody in for a month and barely knowing a thing about them. 

“What if you decide that you can’t stand me or that I’m not good enough for you? That I’m not _enough_ in general?” Greg bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, exposing his greatest fears like this makes him feel naked. 

Mycroft puts his mug on the coffee table, then gently takes Greg’s from his hands to place it beside his own. With their hands free, he takes both of Greg’s hands in his own, and Greg can’t help the gasp that leaves him at the feeling.

Mycroft still looks troubled, he looks to Greg searchingly. “Gregory, I am not your past partners. I highly doubt that I could ever tire of you. Already, you’ve enriched my life more than I ever thought possible. You’re my future, and quite frankly, I adore you.” 

Greg stares at the other man open-mouthed in shock. His heart has decided to run a race, and an overwhelming relief washes over him at the same time. It makes him feel slightly dizzy. 

“When I suggested the month, it was for the duration of your leave, it did not mean that once the month is up that you have to leave. Gregory, you can stay as long as you wish. It was never my intention to let you return to the loneliness.” Mycroft’s voice shakes with emotion, “I’ve allowed you into my life, and I would be truly honoured if you would stay.” 

Greg can’t help the smile he feels blossoming on his face. There’s nothing but open honesty in Mycroft’s eyes, and Greg finds that he happily trusts him wholly. 

“You want me.” Greg doesn’t even realise he’s said it out loud, the disbelief clear in his voice until Mycroft squeezes his hands, a blush rapidly colouring his cheeks. 

“Quite desperately, yes.” Mycroft confesses, biting his lower lip. He doesn’t break eye-contact, instead choosing to watch Greg with open admiration. 

Greg feels the sting of tears in his eyes, the overwhelming happiness washes over him like a wave. He feels like he could stare at this man for the rest of time. 

“Can I kiss you, Mycroft?” Greg whispers, convinced Mycroft can hear the thud of his heart; it’s certainly loud enough in his own ears. 

“Please do.” Mycroft breaths, eyes flicking to Greg’s lips, then back to his eyes, longing in his gaze.

Greg’s hands shake as he lets go of Mycroft’s, he trails them slowly up Mycroft’s arms, over the soft material of Mycroft’s jumper. 

Mycroft watches him intently, and Greg feels Mycroft’s fingers tremble as he mirrors Greg. 

Greg gently cradles Mycroft’s cheeks in his hands, and Mycroft’s own hands stop at Greg’s shoulders. 

The electricity is there, and he hopes it always will be. 

The gentle tingle, the sureness of their warmth and connection to each other. 

Greg’s almost breathless already, Mycroft’s staring at him with wide eyes, his pupils large and taking away from the blue-grey sureness of Mycroft’s gaze. 

“Myc.” Greg breathes, smiling despite himself, desperate to make this perfect. 

Mycroft’s the one who closes the distance; the first gentle press of their lips against each other makes them jolt backwards, gasping in a mixture of shock and pain. 

Greg can’t help but wonder if there were visible sparks. 

Greg’s the first to laugh, the sound happy and free. Mycroft follows him over, laughter lines on his face pronounced. 

They meet eyes and both nod at the same time in silent agreement, nearly knocking noses when they both lean in too fast, desperate for the next kiss.

The next press of their lips is not painful, but the familiar tingle is there, slightly more concentrated than the usual bare skin contact. 

Greg can’t help but shiver, the pleasant energy shooting down his spine. 

The most amazing thing is that he can feel Mycroft smile against his lips, feel Mycroft’s fingers as he buries them in Greg’s scalp. 

Greg presses kisses to Mycroft’s lips, intently cataloguing every millisecond of the experience. 

His hands wander to the nape of Mycroft’s neck, keeping him close. 

He’s surprised by the moan that erupts from him as Mycroft licks at his lips, asking silently for them to deepen the kiss. Greg answers silently, but enthusiastically. 

Mycroft tastes of coffee and a home that Greg never knew existed.

And Mycroft’s own answering moan is glorious, and Mycroft’s fingers tighten in Greg’s hair, an attempt to pull him impossibly closer. 

Greg can never remember feeling as whole.

When they finally, reluctantly break to catch their breath, Greg can’t help but press soft, open-mouthed kisses across Mycroft’s face, delighting in the thrill of electricity that shoots through him at every move. 

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

Greg says it through kisses, afraid to break the spell and say it out loud, but he hopes Mycroft understands. 

Mycroft’s hands grip onto Greg’s jumper, holding him close as he breathes heavily, pressing soft kisses to the sensitive skin on Greg’s neck. 

_Now that we’ve started, how do we ever stop?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on tumblr @lostallsenseofcontrol or you can watch me have virtual arguments with Greg and Mycroft on twitter @lostallsenseof1 
> 
> <3


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg leaves his apartment behind him, and Mycroft receives a replay from the head of the soulmates study in America. Tabitha is an angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am _so_ sorry for not updating since July, I've had terrible writer's block and work is crazy. I never stopped thinking about this story and it was torture to not be able to get the words out. 
> 
> cw for mentions of Greg's recent disordered eating, and mention of scars (which will be explored further in later chapters)

Greg is breathless when they part, a wave of happiness warming him from head to toe.

He’s smiling so wide that it hurts; a reminder that he’s hardly smiled at all in the past few months. 

Mycroft is watching him, pupils blown wide and his cheeks gloriously pink. 

His smile is shy and Greg wants to gather him in his arms and never let him go. 

He wants to thank Mycroft for the glimpse of what living could be like, his time with Mycroft so far has been life changing, life _saving._

Greg silently rejoices as Mycroft holds both his hands in his own between them. Grateful to keep the connection between them still, the comfort of each other’s warmth. 

Greg adores Mycroft’s shy smile, hesitant, eyes searching.

“Was that alright? Greg asks, voice gentle. His eyes are trained on Mycroft’s face and searching for any signs of discomfort. 

Mycroft chuckles softly and the sound sends a spark of joy through Greg.

“It was.” 

If possible, Mycroft’s cheeks turn a deeper shade of red. 

“I haven’t kissed anyone in a decade.” He says matter of factly. “I’m eternally grateful that it was you, Gregory.”

Greg’s still smiling, unable to stop. “I’m glad too.” 

Mycroft doesn’t take his eyes off Greg. Greg’s in awe at how they shine, how Mycroft looks younger when he smiles, wonders how he ever lived without this. 

Knows he never wants to lose this, to lose Mycroft. 

An unfamiliar happiness curls in his chest, its warmth is comforting and reassuring. 

Mycroft’s still watching him, smiling as though he can read Greg’s thoughts. He gently squeezes Greg’s hands. “Perhaps we should finish here?”

Greg blinks, suddenly remembering where they are. 

His apartment, of course. The loneliness and helplessness await him, memories of the last few unbearable months are there, but the warmth in his chest resists. 

Reluctantly, Greg lets go of Mycroft’s hands to stand up. Immediately he misses the warmth and comfort of the other man’s skin. 

Mycroft gives him a reassuring smile and follows Greg into his bedroom, where Greg’s bag sits on the stripped bed, a haphazard pile of clothes beside it. 

Greg glances at the bed, the thought of having Mycroft there flits across his mind. 

Mycroft tutting beside him distracts Greg, he glances over at Mycroft who’s smiling in amusement at the pile of clothes. When he meets Greg’s eyes again, his blue gaze dances with amusement. 

“I’ll fold, you choose what else you would like to take with you?” 

Greg can only nod, watching as Mycroft gently picks up a creased shirt and begins to fold it, perfect and efficient. 

Mycroft glances up at Greg, sensing the weight of his gaze and smiles reassuringly, it makes Greg’s heart stutter. 

_Safe here with you._

“Is there anything else you would like to bring with you?” Mycroft asks, almost finished packing the suitcase with the clothes Greg had hesitantly picked out. 

“Hm?” Greg asks distractedly. “Sorry.” He murmurs, “Just want to get out of here.”

He can feel the blush heat his cheeks, and immediately feels annoyed at himself. 

Mycroft’s hand unexpectedly searches out Greg’s own. The sudden shock of electricity that flares between them makes him gasp. 

Mycroft smiles at him, gentle and understanding. “How about any books or DVDs?” 

Greg tightens his grip on Mycroft’s hand. “Uh..I’ll grab my Kindle, yeah?” 

Mycroft nods, and Greg hopes he isn’t imagining the pride in his eyes. After all, he is only going to get his Kindle, make their escape from here speed up. 

“Don’t forget the charger.” Mycroft murmurs, nodding with encouragement, before letting go of Greg’s hand. 

Greg looks at Mycroft, sees the softness in his gorgeous eyes directed at him, and Greg suddenly wants nothing more than to be cradled in Mycroft’s arms. 

_Later_ , he tells himself as he forces himself to search for his Kindle. 

He finds it easily, on one of the shelves for his physical books, all of which have been read.  
  
He had opted for a Kindle when he realised that his book collection had long outgrown the bookshelves, and that perhaps five haphazard piles of books on the floor were beginning to take up more space in his tiny apartment than he could really spare.  
  
He thinks of Mycroft’s floor-to-ceiling bookshelf in his sitting room, of the one in what used to be the office and his heart aches at the thought that there will be no room for his own, if Mycroft has not tired of him by the end of the month that is. 

Biting back the surge of despair that that thought awakens in him, he grabs the charger, and returns to the bedroom where Mycroft’s smile fades as he sees the clear distress in Greg’s eyes. 

“What happened?” Mycroft whispers, closing the small distance between them, gently cupping Greg’s cheek. 

Greg shakes his head, embarrassed. “Just thinking, I guess.” 

Mycroft surprises him with a quick kiss to his forehead, the shock that accompanies Mycroft’s lips warms him, makes him feel less vulnerable. 

“Any minute now,” Mycroft whispers, “We’ll be leaving this behind.” He smiles reassuringly at Greg, “Now, last thing is is there any toiletries you would like to bring with you?” 

_I like smelling like you,_ Greg barely manages to stop himself from saying. Instead, he nods. He wanders into his bathroom as Mycroft adds his Kindle to the suitcase. 

There’s a wash basket full of towels and clothes in here too, but he chooses to ignore that, going to gather up his shaving stuff and some aftershave and deodorant, storing them in a travel case. He gathers his toothbrush and toothpaste, looking around trying to think of anything else.  
  
He feels the same in here as in the rest of the apartment; that he could walk away and never look back. 

But he would like his books. 

Mycroft has finished packing Greg’s suitcase and smiles reassuringly at him as he drops his travel bag into the suitcase, his heart racing as he watches Mycroft zip the case shut. 

“Shall we depart?” Mycroft asks, his voice gentle, eyes kind as he meets Greg’s gaze.

“Please.” Greg whispers.

Mycroft picks up the case with one hand, and holds out the other for Greg to hold.

Greg immediately takes comfort in Mycroft’s warmth; in that steady hum of electricity that they share. 

Greg doesn’t look back as he walks out the door, only turning around to lock up, Mycroft’s hand still in his own. 

By the time they arrive at Mycroft’s car, and Mycroft has put his suitcase into the boot, a wave of tiredness crashes over Greg so suddenly that if he hadn’t had the car to lean against to hold him up, he would be on the ground right now. 

Mycroft, attuned to his every movement, immediately knows there’s something wrong. He appears at Greg’s side within seconds, carefully wrapping an arm around Greg’s waist, holding him up. 

“What happened?” He asks, Greg can hear the worry in Mycroft’s voice. 

“Just…” Greg tries to find the words, “Tired.” He manages. 

He sees the concern in Mycroft’s eyes, and is taken off-guard when Mycroft kisses him on the cheek, _safe,_ his mind supplies. 

“We’ll get you home right away, then perhaps a lie down might help.” Mycroft murmurs as he opens the passenger door for Greg, helping him into the car. 

_Home._

A warm hand on his cheek and Mycroft’s quiet voice wake him up out of an uneasy sleep.  
  
A brief moment of confusion clouds his thoughts as he tries to figure out why he’s in a car, but when he meets Mycroft’s worried gaze, tension disappears from his body when he sees the other man. 

“We’re home, are you alright to walk a little?” There’s a quiver in Mycroft’s voice, and Greg automatically reaches out to take the other man’s hand to reassure him. 

Mycroft intertwines their fingers and squeezes Greg’s hand before raising their hands so that he can kiss the back of Greg’s hand. 

Greg’s eyes fill with tears at the tenderness of the gesture.

Mycroft smiles at him, gently stroking his cheek, aware of the tears threatening to fall. 

“Ready?” He whispers. 

Greg nods, still leaning into the warmth of Mycroft’s touch, to the calming hum of electricity between their skin. 

Mycroft goes to fetch Greg’s suitcase from the boot, then helps Greg out of the car. 

“Feel weak.” Greg murmurs, embarrassed. His legs feel like jelly, and he knows that if not for Mycroft’s arm around his waist, he’d probably be on the ground. 

“I’ve got you.” Mycroft says calmly, and Greg knows he has; he feels safe. 

They make their way slowly to the café, one of Mycroft’s arms around him, while the other rolls his suitcase. 

Two customers walk out the door as they approach, coffees in their hands. They seem to recognise Mycroft and hold the door open for them both. 

“Thank you.” Mycroft smiles at them, then helps Greg inside.

Anthea glances up from the coffee machine and her face falls when she sees them both. She says something to the customer waiting for their coffee, too quietly for Mycroft and Greg to hear before she runs over to both of them. 

“What’s wrong?” She asks, worry clear in her gaze. 

Her eyes scan Greg, assessing him. 

Greg can feel the blush heat his cheeks, he feels useless. “Uh, just weak and tired.” 

Mycroft seems to sense Greg’s discomfort, “We’re just going upstairs.” He says evenly, “I’ll be back for Greg’s suitcase.” 

Anthea nods, taking the suitcase from Mycroft and bringing it safely behind the counter. She doesn’t say anything else, only smiles reassuringly at them both before returning to the waiting customer. 

“How will you be for the stairs?” Mycroft murmurs, lips close to Greg’s ear. 

Greg can’t help but lean into him more, desperately seeking Mycroft’s touch and the electricity between them, the safety it brings along with feeling _wanted._

“Think I’ll manage with you.” 

For that, Greg is gifted with a gentle kiss on his cheek, and he can’t help the smile that graces his face as a result. 

They take the stairs slowly and both sigh in relief when they walk through the door into Mycroft’s apartment. 

Greg’s momentarily taken off-guard by being suddenly engulfed in Mycroft’s arms. 

“Myc?” Greg whispers, his own hands balled in the fabric of Mycroft’s coat, unwilling to let him go. 

Mycroft’s face is buried in Greg’s shoulder and Greg can smell his cologne clearly, he moves one hand and buries it in Mycroft’s hair, stroking slowly. He feels Mycroft shakily exhale, breath warm against Greg’s neck. 

He’s never felt as close to someone as he is to Mycroft right now, and that very thought makes his eyes fill with tears. He’s been so lonely and so _alone_ for so long that he doesn’t remember even feeling wanted. 

But here he is, being held _and_ holding his soulmate. 

He feels wanted and safe, he feels hopeful for what’s to come. 

Greg’s not afraid anymore. 

He knows deep inside himself that Mycroft will stay by his side as they try to find the source of what’s making him ill. That Mycroft will _stay_ regardless. 

Their hug is interrupted by an intrigued meow, the feeling of Tabitha walking around their legs, brushing up against their trousers. 

Greg can’t help but chuckle, and he feels some of the tension dissipate in Mycroft’s body, along with a little huff of amusement. 

Mycroft reluctantly releases Greg from their embrace, smiling shyly at him. “I apologise,” He whispers, “I’m just worried about you.” 

Greg reaches out, softly caressing Mycroft’s cheek, watching intently as Mycroft closes his eyes, breathing in, clearly absorbing the comforting electricity between them. “I’ll be alright.” Greg murmurs, “With you.” 

Tabitha meowing again breaks them out gazing at one another. 

Mycroft looks down at where Tabitha is trying to climb his leg, he leans down to pick her up. Cradling her in his arms. Greg watches on adoringly. 

“Does Mademoiselle want dinner?” Mycroft asks, his voice gentle and he shakes his head as she meows loudly in what is clearly affirmation. 

“In a few minutes, I promise.” He says before letting her down again. He looks at Greg, “Would you like food, or would you rather take a nap now and I’ll wake you in a few hours?” 

Greg frowns, his body feels heavy, as though it’s using up far more energy than it should to keep him standing. The thought of food makes his stomach turn. “Food later.” 

Mycroft nods, “Let me help you to bed.” He reaches out and wraps an arm around Greg’s waist, holding him up like earlier as he leads him to his room. “Would you like something to drink?” Mycroft asks as he helps Greg sit on the bed. 

“Maybe water, need to change.” Greg murmurs, feeling his cheeks heat with embarrassment. 

“Shall I fetch some water while you change?” 

Greg knows that the silent question is there in the way Mycroft phrases the question.  
  
The _Do you need my help to change clothes?_ It makes his heart beat faster, emotion filling the emptiness in his chest at the sheer amount of care that Mycroft is showing him.

“That’d be great, thanks.” Mycroft nods, leaving his room. 

Greg glances around the room that is now his own, and reaches for the folded pyjamas on the end of the bed; the ones he’d borrowed from Mycroft and slept in the night before. 

Greg knows he packed his own pyjamas in his suitcase today, they’re downstairs right now. But the thought of spending another night in Mycroft’s clothes, with the legs that are too long on him and the cozy material wins out. 

He gets to his feet, albeit shakily to start getting changed. He can hear Mycroft move around the kitchen, quietly talking to Tabitha. 

Greg smiles at the random meow here and there that seem to be responses to whatever Mycroft is saying to her. 

Greg’s just buttoning up his pyjama top when Mycroft announces himself with a quiet knock on his door. 

“S’okay, come in.” Greg says as he finishes with the buttons. 

Mycroft’s carrying two glasses, and hands one to Greg, placing the other on his nightstand. He sits down beside Greg, and Greg can’t help but to lean into him. 

Mycroft wraps an arm around Greg’s waist, staying silent as he watches Greg drink out of the corner of his eye. 

Greg’s a little taken aback at how intimate sitting in silence with Mycroft is, promptly realising that he likes it. 

Mycroft takes the empty glass from Greg, pressing a gentle kiss to Greg’s forehead. 

“When would you like me to wake you?” 

Greg thinks for a few seconds, “Maybe three hours?” 

Mycroft nods, “Of course. Then we’ll have something to eat?” 

Greg hopes the thought of food isn’t as sickening a few hours from now as he nods. 

“Sleep well, my love.” Mycroft whispers, before pulling down the duvet and helping Greg into bed.

Mycroft hasn’t even left the room by the time that Greg feels himself being pulled into sleep. 

* * *

Mycroft glances back at an already sleeping Greg, his heart heavy with worry. 

He can hear the din of life going on beneath them in the café and suddenly feels like throwing himself back into the work, something to distract him from the worry about Greg. 

Instead, he goes to the kitchen and sits on the tiled floor beside Tabitha’s food bowl, where she's happily preoccupied with her dinner. 

“I’m terrified.” He whispers to the quiet kitchen. 

Tabitha glances up at him, purring softly, leaving her dinner to come sit in his lap. 

Mycroft immediately feels calmer as he begins to run his fingers through Tabitha’s fur, she closes her eyes, purring contentedly as he pets her. 

“Thank you.” He whispers to Tabitha as she continues a soft purr, staying in his arms as he tries to get his thoughts in order. 

She presses her head onto Mycroft’s chest, nuzzling against the soft material of his jumper. 

Even from the start when he had just taken her in, she had surprised him with how attuned to his turbulent emotions she was; how she’d often lie on his chest purring, a reassuring weight on the days he struggled to leave bed. 

The fact that even now, she’ll ignore her dinner so she can comfort Mycroft when he’s like this. 

Mycroft stays on the floor for another while longer, back resting against the cabinets and Tabitha in his lap as he pets her, staring up at him with a fondness that he hopes she sees in his eyes too. 

He can feel Greg’s presence in his apartment; in the space that was always just his own. He finds he likes it, though his heart aches at the pain he’d seen in Greg back at his apartment. How Greg honestly told him about the loneliness that had plagued him over the last few years. 

_I’ll never let you be lonely again_ , Mycroft wanted to promise. _I’ll always be here for you, with you._

Mycroft’s phone pinging on the countertop where he had left it this morning takes him out of his thoughts.  
  
Tabitha hears it too, a curious meow erupts and when Mycroft kisses her head, she meows contentedly, leaving her spot on his lap and returning to her food bowl. Mycroft watches her fondly for a few more seconds before he picks himself off the floor, grunting quietly at the stiffness in his joints. 

He knows the text is from Anthea before he reads it, it wouldn’t be from anyone else. 

_17:23] Everything alright?_

_17:25] Fine, I’ll be down soon._

_17:26] Alright x_

Mycroft often wonders at the fact that someone as wonderful as Anthea entered his life and stayed. How she saved his life, and continues to do so every day. 

Even if he had survived that day in the office with Henry, he wouldn’t have been able to live with himself for very long afterwards, especially with the image of a dying Sherlock in his mind’s eye every second of the day. 

Anthea is the one who helped him through those days, those years. 

The thought that she has also found her soulmate, how even with Sally and Greg in their lives; they’re still connected. 

He debates changing into a shirt and waistcoat, but decides against it, choosing to keep the jumper. 

Mycroft slides his phone into his pocket and watches Tabitha eat her dinner happily. Before he goes downstairs, he looks into Greg’s room, unaware he’s been holding his breath until he finally breathes when he sees the peaceful look upon Greg’s face as he sleeps, snoring softly. 

_I love you with everything in me._

The internal confession doesn’t alarm him like it once would have; he knows it’s fact. 

Reassured that Greg is sleeping soundly, Mycroft heads down to the café. 

Anthea is waving goodbye at a customer and their child as Mycroft comes out into the café. She seems to sense his presence immediately, and turns, smiling kindly at him. 

“How is he?” She asks softly. 

“Sleeping.” Mycroft says evenly, “It came over him so quickly, I’m worried.” 

Anthea turns back to the machine, grabbing a mug from the top of it and starting another coffee. Mycroft knows it’s for him. 

“You care about him, it’s normal to be worried. Sally’s worried too.” 

“I love him.” Mycroft whispers, saying the words out loud has his heart racing. 

Anthea turns, holding out a flat white for him to take. She’s smiling, tears in her eyes as she regards him. 

“I’m happy for you.” She squeezes his arm after he takes the coffee from her. 

Mycroft takes a sip, sighing in contentment at the perfectly made coffee. 

“Actually,” Anthea hesitates, “I wanted to ask you something.” 

Mycroft nods, “Go ahead.” 

“Sally is going to be moving in with me this weekend, can I have Saturday off?” 

Mycroft stares at her in surprise, he doesn’t dare say anything about the speed of it, after all, he met Greg on the same day and they’re now living together. 

Mycroft can’t help but smile, “Take a long weekend.” He says easily, “We’re closed Sundays anyway. Take Friday until Monday, don’t come back until Tuesday.” 

Anthea raises a brow, clearly surprised. 

“You never take holidays, Anthea.” He takes another sip from his coffee, “If you need longer, just let me know.” 

“Thank you.” She whispers, reaching out to take his hand. 

So used to touching and being touched by Greg, he finds the lack of any electricity in the touch jarring. 

Anthea squeezes his hand, unaware of how foreign it feels to Mycroft. “Sally can only get the weekend off, but the extra days for me will be a godsend.” 

Mycroft smiles, happy for her. “If you need more time, just let me know. I’ll call in Elspeth, she enjoys it here.” 

Anthea nods, “When we’ve sorted the apartment, we want to invite you and Greg over for dinner.” 

The thought of them all having dinner together does not instill dread in Mycroft, instead he finds himself quite fond of the idea. He’d love to extend the offer himself, but they’d have to eat downstairs in the café, because his apartment wouldn’t be big enough to accommodate them all. 

“I’d like that.” He says quietly, “I think Gregory would too.” 

“That’s what we’re hoping. Is he eating?” 

“Small amounts. I’m unsure what to prepare for dinner.” 

Worry lines appear on Anthea’s forehead. “Maybe see if there’s something he wants.” She bites her lip, giving Mycroft a look of appraisal. “And yourself?” 

“Coping.” He murmurs, them both being interrupted by the bell above the door as a customer comes in. 

Mycroft smiles at the customer, but stands back finishing the coffee that Anthea had made him. 

“Oh!” Anthea gasps, turning back to him. “I was going through your emails earlier, and meant to tell you that you’ve received a reply from the head of the soulmates study.”

Mycroft raises a brow in surprise. He rarely checks his emails nowadays, and the email he had sent had slipped his mind, replaced by his worries about Greg. 

“I didn’t open it.” Anthea says quietly, “But I saw it while I was fobbing off that idiot of a PM. You should go read it, it might be important.” 

Mycroft nods, “Do you mind?” He asks, gesturing towards the back. 

“‘Course not! Go!” She says, amusement twinkling in her eyes. “I hope you get some answers, and Mycroft?” 

“Anthea?” 

She steps closer to him, “Know that I’m always here for you.” 

“Thank you.” Mycroft whispers sincerely. 

“If you need to talk about what’s in the email, I’m right here.” 

Mycroft forces a smile, trying to ignore the nervousness that’s building in him. He’d queried whether the study had seen illnesses in sample soulmates. 

“I would be nothing without you.” Mycroft confesses, not for the first time. 

Anthea pulls him into an unexpected hug, and Mycroft can’t help but tense at the contact at first, before slowly relaxing in Anthea’s arms, belatedly wrapping his arms around her. 

“I love you, Mycroft. I’m always going to be here, now go and get some answers, alright?” She whispers close to his ear. 

Mycroft nods, and she releases him from the hug. She smiles encouragingly. 

“Thank you.” Mycroft whispers before turning to head back to his apartment. 

Closing the door behind him, Mycroft leans against it, closing his eyes and trying to deal with the sudden anxiety of all the possibilities that could be presented by the email.  
  
Taking a deep breath, he moves into the sitting room.  
  
Tabitha is nowhere to be seen; her bowl is empty, and she’s not lying down in her favourite spot on the sofa. The door to his office is open at the end of the short hallway and he takes comfort in the fact she’s probably in there. He’ll find her there when he goes to fetch his laptop. 

First and foremost, Greg is on Mycroft’s mind. His bedroom door is slightly ajar, and Mycroft’s footsteps are silent as he approaches. He can hear Greg’s quiet snores, and is relieved to know that the man is still sleeping, hoping that he’ll feel better when he wakes. 

The sight that greets Mycroft is completely unexpected. 

Greg’s lying on his back, face peaceful and mouth open slightly. He looks relaxed and as though he’s in a deep sleep, but Mycroft is more surprised to see Tabitha perched on Greg’s chest. 

Her paws are folded under her, and she stares at Greg, looking close to sleep herself. Mycroft can hear her steady purring from as far away as the door. 

Immediately, he remembers the theory about cats being able to heal through their purring. He remembers countless days where she lay either on his chest or curled up at his side, purring continually. 

He’s surprised at the emotions that seeing Tabitha and Greg like this raises in him. 

Endless relief that Tabitha has welcomed Greg into her life without any strife, overwhelming love that she has taken to protecting Greg, just as she had to Mycroft from the very start. 

Blinking, Mycroft finds himself with tears in his eyes. He smiles at Greg and Tabitha from where he stands, wishing that perhaps someday soon; it could be himself and Greg lying together with Tabitha perched in between them. 

A family. 

Something Mycroft had long given up on finding. 

Wiping a stray tear away from his cheek, Mycroft turns from the bedroom door, his chest full of hope at the possibilities that could lie ahead between him and Greg. 

The closeness that might develop. 

Mycroft walks to his office almost on autopilot. 

Thoughts flit through his head: whispers, angry green eyes, the countless scars that mar his body.

After Henry, he had let no one near him sexually.

Hell, Anthea was the only one allowed near him emotionally, and that was because she had been there from the beginning, knew all Mycroft’s secrets and shame. 

The thought of him allowing someone, allowing _Greg_ to touch him like that, for _Greg_ to be the one he feels safe with to have sex for the first time in a decade, for it to be Greg that makes the thought of sex not send him into a terror-filled panic attack is something he doesn’t quite know how to deal with. 

Before Greg, before the shared dreams, Mycroft had been perfectly content with the decision to not let anyone this close to him, to never let anyone else in romantically, to ever trust someone in that way again. 

But then Greg came along, changing his opinion as with a wide range of firmly set rules for his life. 

Mycroft doesn’t feel scared or threatened, instead he feels a tentative gratefulness towards Greg, gentle adoration; the slow and soft tendrils of love. 

By the time that Mycroft’s standing in the centre of his office, he’s forgotten what exactly he came in here for. Too distracted by possibilities, ideas that he’d never allowed himself to entertain. 

But thoughts of Gregory often come with the worry that it’s Mycroft that has made him ill; the fervent hope that Greg is not seriously ill. 

_I’ve only just found him, please don’t take him away._

He remembers the email that’s waiting for him in his inbox and goes to fetch his laptop from the locked drawer in his desk. Sitting down, he powers it on and waits in silence, steady waves of anxiety pulsing under his skin. 

Ignoring his other emails, he clicks the unopened one that’s been flagged to stay on top by Anthea. His fingers shake minutely as he begins to scroll down. 

> _Dear Mycroft,_
> 
> _Thank you for your previous email, we apologise for the delay in responding. Due to the increased worldwide publicity of our Soulmates study, we have been inundated with all forms of communication._
> 
> _You originally emailed Professor Julio Gomez, the head of this study. I would like to introduce myself as Dr Eve Power, I am now the communications manager for this study and will be dealing with all future correspondences._
> 
> _You may have heard that this has recently become a global, cross-disciplinary study. We are now officially working in partnership with the history department in Cambridge, though many other universities have approached us with evidence from their own history and anthropology departments. As you can tell, the scale of our study has vastly increased in such a short time._
> 
> _I have talked to Professor Gomez in detail about your email, as your case presented as unique._ _  
> _ _First of all, I would like to congratulate you on finding your soulmate; as much as 4% of people we’ve documented and have reported dreams never meet theirs._
> 
> _From our samples so far, there doesn’t appear to be a common age where the dreams begin, so you would not be alone at your age to only recently experience this phenomenon. We’ve worked with people who have had dreams from as young as five, and reports of those who only began in their eighties. What is rather unique about your situation is that your close friend, Anthea, has also found her soulmate._
> 
> _It’s rare for people to know anyone else in their social circles who has experienced the dreams. We estimate that roughly 10% of the population alone experience this phenomenon, though through further research and collaboration with other educational institutions, that number may rise._
> 
> _The uniqueness of this also extends to the fact that you and your friend both found your soulmates on the exact same day. We’ve never heard such a story before, though as you explained, Anthea’s had her dreams for over a decade._
> 
> _If you could pass on my details to Anthea and her soulmate, we would be pleased to speak with them and document their experience._
> 
> _Your query about illness is interesting, albeit worrying._
> 
> _The fact that you are not having matching symptoms sets you two apart from other pairs we have studied._
> 
> _In the history of our study, we’ve had five couples who have later been diagnosed with terminal illnesses. Of these five, four of the couples had identical symptoms, beginning upon the onset of their dreams. Ages ranged from 20s-60s, with no real pattern._
> 
> _With the other couple, one partner’s diagnosis of lung cancer seemed largely circumstantial based on a lifetime of smoking, where the other partner who had never smoked did not exhibit any signs of illness._
> 
> _Again, our problem here is that we do not have sufficient data to give you a concrete answer._
> 
> _The fact your partner’s illness only began when the dreams did is concerning, and we would recommend a general health screening._ _  
> _ _  
> _ _Finally, your description of the electricity between you both when you touch each other has not been documented so far in our study._
> 
> _Does it still continue, or was it only at first?_
> 
> _Professor Gomez and I would be interested in speaking with the both of you at a time that suits you, perhaps over Zoom?_
> 
> _Mycroft, your case is unique._
> 
> _If you would like to continue the conversation, your email is on a list that will be easily flagged for me. We here at the University of Arizona would be honoured to have you and your partner join our study._
> 
> _It goes without saying that if everyone in the world who has had a soulmate dream had the same experiences, reactions, and consequences; there would be no study. We would have all the answers. I truly hope this email helped in some way._
> 
> _I will also look further at the data of those with illnesses during our study and will see if anything stands out, if so I’ll write to you immediately._
> 
> _Kindest Regards,_
> 
> _Dr Eve Power_

Mycroft stares at the last few lines of the email so long, his laptop goes into standby mode. 

Leaning forward on his elbows, hands steepled under his chin, he feels a pull of despair deep inside him. 

The comfort he had hoped to gain from a response had not arrived; instead Mycroft is now more worried about Greg. 

Surely a wide array of the participants had experienced various illnesses throughout the period of the study, not solely terminal death sentences? 

The mere thought of Greg dying sends a wave of horror over Mycroft, sets his heart racing. He knows he would do anything, absolutely anything it would take to help Greg get better. 

It seems his only option is to contact his own doctor, and have Greg referred to take any tests and scans needed to get to the bottom of what is wrong. 

A distinct meow and the familiar sensation of Tabitha headbutting his calf pulls Mycroft out of the dizzying panic that’s started within him. 

“Hello, lovely.” Mycroft whispers, voice hoarse as he sits up straight, allowing her to jump into his lap. She purrs her approval as Mycroft massages the back of her neck; her favourite spot. 

Tabitha rests her head on Mycroft’s chest, a quiet purr stops Mycroft’s thoughts spiralling further. 

She looks up at him, her seemingly bottomless blue eyes meeting his own. 

“If you could talk,” Mycroft murmurs, watching her pupils grow at the sound of his voice, “Would you tell me Gregory will be alright?” 

She meows at him in response, and Mycroft can’t help but smile. 

Placing a quick kiss to the top of her head, he closes his eyes. “Thank you.” He whispers. 

Mycroft sits in silence with Tabitha for a while, her curled up in his lap as he pets her, both of them listening to the noise around them; a busy London outside, and a bustling café beneath them. If he listens particularly close, perhaps he’d be able to hear Greg snoring from the other room. 

Even thinking of the other man has Mycroft’s heart stuttering. He glances at the clock on his desk, seeing it’s been a little over three hours since Greg went to bed. 

Perhaps, Mycroft thinks, it’s time to wake him. 

He wonders what he could do for them both for dinner, knowing of Greg’s lack of appetite.   
Mycroft bites his lip, he’ll let Greg choose. 

“Let’s wake Gregory.” Mycroft murmurs, Tabitha purrs in acknowledgement, and sensing his imminent movement, she jumps from his lap to the floor, where she trots out through the door to where Mycroft guesses is Greg’s room. 

Mycroft stands up to follow her, the email still weighing heavy on his mind, knowing that Greg deserves to read it too. 

By the time Mycroft reaches Greg’s bedroom, Tabitha is perched on the end of the bed. Greg has turned onto his side since Mycroft last saw him. Greg’s facing the door, still sound asleep. 

Tabitha glances up at Mycroft as he lingers nervously in the doorway. 

He’s aware Greg needs sleep, but he also needs to eat. Anyway, Mycroft had promised to wake him after a few hours, so really he shouldn’t be feeling guilty about it. 

As if Tabitha senses Mycroft’s anxiety, she moves from where she is by Greg’s feet, up the bed at his side, stopping to lick his face when she reaches it. 

“Tabitha!” Mycroft whispers mortified, he feels his cheeks heat with embarrassment, as Greg shifts in his sleep. 

Tabitha raises her head, briefly acknowledges Mycroft’s terror before returning to lick at Greg’s cheek. Mycroft, seeing no alternative, goes to fetch Tabitha, who now has Greg half awake. He’s murmuring incoherently, voice still slurred from tiredness. 

As Mycroft steps closer, he’s just about to pick Tabitha up when Greg’s hand slowly curls around his wrist. “M’croft?” 

Mycroft gasps involuntarily at the gentle shock of electricity that flares between their skin. It’s less intense, almost sleepy, like Greg himself.

“It’s me, Gregory.” Mycroft murmurs, “I do apologise for Tab-”

“Smell nice.” Greg mumbles, “Like coffee.” He blinks slowly a couple of times, getting used to the light in the room. 

Mycroft steadfastly does his best to ignore the effect that Greg’s sleep-rough voice seems to have on his heart rate. “I own a café, Gregory.” Mycroft says softly, smiling in adoration at the beautiful brown eyes that blink up at him, focussing on him. 

“Mhmm.” Greg hums, his hand releasing Mycroft’s wrist so he can intertwine their fingers. He grins sleepily up at Mycroft, amusement clear on his face. “Man of my dreams, you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading <3

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from 'Love Of My Life', by VELVET MOON [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=boPIBGkwgDU)] 
> 
> twitter: @lostallsenseof1  
> tumblr: @lostallsenseofcontrol


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